


Steal the Light

by timeiscontagious



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-05-04 03:01:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 32,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5317979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timeiscontagious/pseuds/timeiscontagious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one cared about their story when they were alive is what she tells them. </p><p>They were the only ones who cared. And it wasn’t until a grad student stumbled across Mickey’s work and delved further into his life – their lives – that people started to care.  </p><p>Now, people keep the story of their love alive long after they themselves have gone. </p><p>She has made sure of that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

She sits stoically.

The fierceness in her eyes has not changed in all these years. She uses this to her advantage, never once breaking eye contact with the boy sitting before her as lights are positioned around them. She elegantly arranges her limbs once she’s told they’re ready to begin.

The requisite questions are placed, and she answers as though they are important. She knows why they’re here, and these are not the questions they want answered. But they’re being polite. She sniffs. She always hated politeness. Finally, the boy gets to the center of it all.

“How did they meet?”

She lights a cigarette.

Inhales.

* * *

 

Ian sees him at a party.

He’s talking with some freelance writer who’s bragging about his recent publication in _The New Yorker_ when he looks up and sees a dark-haired man across the room. The man’s laughing with a couple of people Ian doesn’t know.

 _He steals the light_ is the first thought that comes to Ian when he sees him.

For the rest of the night, he watches this man from across the room, laughing and talking with some people that Ian knows and some people that he doesn’t. The man moves with a grace that fascinates Ian. Tattooed knuckles shaking hands and patting shoulders. Arms and hands illustrating what must be wildly fantastic stories. Eyebrows and lips raising and falling with rolling words.

Ian never tries to approach him. He’s tempted, but he’s so hypnotized by the man’s actions that he stays away. He just watches.

And when the dark-haired man leaves, well, Ian watches him go.

* * *

 

Ian brings him up to the one person he knows can give him all the answers he craves.

Svetlana, a friend he’s had for some time now. One who knows so many but gets along with so few.

The two of them are at dinner when he asks if she knows about the man with knuckle tattoos. He watches as Svetlana sips her red wine, raising an eyebrow at him. When she puts her glass down, she softly dabs her mouth with a napkin and leans back in her chair before answering.

“Why do you ask?”

Ian shrugs.

“I saw him at Camille’s party the other night. I’ve never seen him before.”

Svetlana gives a soft hum of acknowledgement. Ian presses forward.

“Do you know who he is?”

“Mickey Milkovich. A photographer. A good one if you believe word of mouth.”

“What’s he doing in Chicago?”

“He lives here.”

“I’ve never seen him before.”

“Just moved back. He was in Europe for a while.”

“Working?”

Svetlana leans forward, propping her chin on her hand.

“I assume there was some work, yes.”

“What does that mean?”

She sighs.

“His boyfriend was working on his manuscript.”

“Boyfriend?”

“Adam Toliver. A poor man’s Tom Clancy.”

Ian smirks. Svetlana reaches for her glass.

“When I finish this glass, you’re taking me to the Green Mill. It’s open mic night and I feel like a laugh.”

Ian chuckles his consent.

* * *

 

Mickey Milkovich.

Mickey Milkovich.

Ian lies in bed repeating the name over and over. He loves the words, the feel of them on his tongue. He sits up and runs his hands through his hair before getting out of bed. The lights remain off and the headlights of passing cars paint his walls while he paces.

Medicated mania is irritating to say the least. The seemingly never-ending restlessness. Racing thoughts. Jittery hands. The feeling of needing to claw skin off, scratching and rubbing until blood forms.

He can’t work when he feels like this. Can only pace and think, words running through his mind, too fast to catch. Later, when the mania ebbs, he’ll take the words he was able to save and sew them into something beautiful. But now, right now, all he can do is pace and repeat the same five syllables.

Mickey Milkovich.

* * *

 

Ian sees Mickey at a gallery show.

He’s speaking with Henry, the friend to whom the night is dedicated, when he sees Mickey walk in with whom he assumes is Adam. They stop to talk to a few people before grabbing drinks and walking towards one of the paintings. They both look at it, but the looks are entirely different. Adam glimpses while drinking, every once and awhile turning away to scan the crowd. But Mickey…he _sees_.

Ian so desperately wants to be seen.

He excuses himself from Henry and makes his way towards Svetlana. She’s staring at a painting in the corner, holding on to her flute of champagne. She doesn’t even glance at him, just starts talking the second he stands next to her.

“I think we should be worried about our dear friend Henry.”

“Why?”

She points at the corners of the painting.

“See the darkness at the edges? The shaking lines? He’s trying to keep the depression at bay, but he’s failing. I think he’s losing his mind.”

Ian stares at the painting. He sees what she’s talking about. He sighs.

“I’ll talk to him.”

She shakes her head.

“It won’t do any good.”

“I’ll do it anyway.”

She nods and places her hand on his arm, turning to look at him.

“I’m assuming you didn’t come to speak with me about Henry.”

“Mickey’s here.”

She glances around Ian to find Mickey in the crowd.

“Am I to play the distraction?”

She meets his eyes, and he smiles.

“Would you?”

Svetlana rolls her eyes and walks around Ian. He watches as she makes her way towards Adam and Mickey, as she plays the part of admirer, linking her arm with Adam’s and leading him away to make introductions. Ian lets a couple of minutes pass before he walks towards Mickey, changing direction only slightly when Mickey heads towards the exit. He finds him outside lighting a cigarette. Ian stands a bit to the side and pulls out his own cigarette, pretending to look for a lighter. He feels movement next to him and looks to see Mickey handing him a light. He takes it, lights his cigarette, and hands it back. He smiles.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

They smoke in silence before Ian introduces himself.

“Ian Gallagher.”

“Mickey Milkovich.”

For the rest of his life, this is the moment Ian will claim he fell in love.

 

 

They don’t speak much that first time.

Cigarettes only burn for so long and Mickey has a boyfriend to get back to. Only the briefest of pleasantries are exchanged, but for Ian, that’s enough to drag him further into the romance of secret admiration. He spends days afterwards writing poem after poem, detailing his obsession with black writing on white skin, the blue of seas and skies, and the beauty in movement.

* * *

 

Ian’s perusing a bookstore when Mickey enters.

He watches as Mickey moves towards the art section, as he runs his fingers over the spines, head tilted. When he finds what he’s looking for, he grabs it and makes his way to the cashier. Ian quickly places himself in Mickey’s line of sight, letting the daylight shine on his profile, knowing that his hair will act as a beacon, calling Mickey to shore. He pretends to be reviewing the displayed books when he feels a presence by his side.

“Hey.”

Ian turns.

“Ian, right?”

Ian nods his head.

“Yeah. Mickey?”

Mickey nods.

“We met at Henry’s show.”

“I remember.”

There’s a brief silence that descends which leaves Ian impatient.

“I was about to get a cup of coffee. Would you like to join me?”

Mickey shrugs.

“Sure. Why not?”

Ian smiles.

 

They sit on the patio, both with black coffees. Ian leans forward, ready and willing to play the part of eager suitor.

“What do you do?”

“I’m a photographer.”

“What are you working on now?”

“Bodies.”

“Like cadavers?”

Mickey laughs.

“No. These are very much alive.”

“Then what do you mean?”

Mickey leans forward himself, eager to explain his latest series.

“I’m obsessed with the male form right now. Some people will try to play it off just because I’m gay, but I think so much focus is put on the female form which is basically considered the epitome of sex and passion and beauty, that not much light is shed on the male form and how that too can be beautiful. And it’s not just the obvious parts of the male body, I’m avoiding those because it’s been done to death, but rather the parts that people tend to ignore. The hands, and feet, and shoulders. I want people to look at my work and think about how breathtaking it is to run your finger along a vein on a hand or to rub your thumb across a collarbone.”

Ian stares at him in complete wonder. Mickey leans back in embarrassment and clears his throat.

“So, yeah, that’s what I’m working on.”

Ian’s smile widens.

“I can’t wait to see it.”

Mickey nods.

“Thanks.”

Mickey picks up his cup and gestures towards Ian with it.

“What do you do?”

Mickey takes a sip of coffee. Ian does the same before answering.

“I’m a poet.”

Mickey tilts his head.

“Really? I pegged you for a painter.”

Ian chuckles.

“God, no. I can’t draw to save my life.”

“So you paint in words?”

Ian nods.

“I love how you put that.”

“What?”

Before Ian can respond, Mickey’s phone rings. Ian leans back as Mickey answers already aware of the fact that their time together is done. He half listens as Mickey speaks with whomever and then hangs up.

“Hey, sorry, but I got to go. It was good seeing you though.”

“Yeah, you too.”

Mickey smiles, picks up his cup, and leaves.

Ian turns to watch.

* * *

 

He visits Henry.

He promised Svetlana he would, and he’s worried himself. The two had become close friends three years ago after being introduced by Svetlana at one of Ian’s readings. Henry had just been diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder, and they commiserated over the demon that is depression. They each described the wasteland of a soreness that shouldn’t exist, a fatigue that held no bounds and a harvesting of mistakes and failures and faults, all of which culminated in the final solution.

Death.

Both had made attempts. Henry twice. Ian once.

It was a weird kinship that had developed, but one that occurred just the same.

Ian knocks on Henry’s door, and miraculously, Henry answers. He looks a little worse for wear, but he’s standing and breathing. When it comes to depression, some days that’s an absolute triumph.

Henry ushers Ian into the kitchen where he’s brewing tea. He pours a cup for Ian, placing it in front of him. Ian notes the slight shake of Henry’s hands. Pouring tea is too much of a task it seems. Ian takes a sip while Henry talks.

“The boa’s not getting the best of me yet. I promise you that.”

Ian puts down his cup.

“How long were you in bed?”

“Three days.”

“That’s too long.”

Henry scoffs.

“I once spent two weeks in bed. Three days is nothing.”

Ian looks at his hands before looking back at Henry.

“I can make an appointment with my psychiatrist.”

Henry moves to the stove behind him, reaching for the kettle. He turns his back to Ian as he responds.

“I can’t work when I’m on pills.”

“The alternative is worse.”

“Not to me.”

Henry turns back to look at Ian. They hold eye contact until Ian sighs and looks away.

“Tell me if anything changes.”

Henry nods. They remain silent for a few seconds before Henry speaks again.

“Svetlana tells me you’re trying to seduce a photographer.”

Ian gives a small smile.

“I’m afraid I’m failing.”

“Who is it?”

“Mickey Milkovich.”

Ian can hear the wonder in his own voice. He’s not ashamed of it in the least.

“I had coffee with him the other day. He’s beautiful.”

“Why the hesitation?”

“There’s a boyfriend.”

Henry shrugs.

“People uncurl themselves from each other all of the time. Sometimes, all one needs is a little push.”

Henry slightly arches a brow.

A push then.

* * *

 

The art community in Chicago is small so when Svetlana agrees to host a bon voyage party for their friend Greta, word spreads quickly.

Svetlana admittedly is not a good hostess. She doesn’t care if people have enough food to eat or enough liquor to drink. She doesn’t care if they’re having a good time or if a fight is about to occur. Quite frankly, she’d rather they all just fucking left, but she can’t ask that, not when Ian is grabbing her elbow and whispering into her ear.

“This is your party and you haven’t said ‘hello’ to anyone.”

Svetlana looks to Henry who is standing next to her.

“Henry, did I say ‘hello’ to you?”

“Yes, you did.”

She turns back to Ian.

“I said ‘hello’ to Henry.”

Ian rolls his eyes.

“He doesn’t count.”

Next to them, Henry makes a dramatic wounded sound. Svetlana holds back a laugh. Ian ignores him.

“You threw this party for Greta…”

She sniffs.

“I threw this party for you, and we both know it. I wish you’d resolve your obsession with the photographer because it is now impacting my life in ways that I do not enjoy.”

Ian smiles.

“My apologies. I know that you’d rather stand in the corner and smoke and scowl, but I need you to give tight smiles and air kisses. Otherwise, it’ll be too noticeable when you pull Adam aside later.”

Svetlana lights a cigarette, making Ian grimace when she blows smoke in his face.

“This is the last time I will do this for you.”

“No, it isn’t.”

Svetlana rolls her eyes as Ian slightly pushes her further into the room. She does as requested, flitting from group to group until she sees Mickey and Adam walking through her door. Her eyes immediately flick to find Ian. She spots him two groups over where he had been steadily watching the door while pretending to listen to a man named Patrick describe the anxiety caused by art restoration.

Ian’s eyes follow Mickey as he and Adam make their way through groups of people before finding Greta. Mickey taps her on her shoulder and when she turns around, they smile and hug. Ian continues to watch them for a bit before finding Svetlana and motioning her towards them. She frowns but walks over to Mickey and Adam, playing the part of charming hostess. The three of them talk a bit before she has another member of the party lead Adam away to discuss his novel. She continues to speak with Mickey until Ian walks over.

“Hi.”

Mickey turns towards the voice and smiles.

“Hey, how are you?”

“Well. And you?”

“Same. Greta’s got a nice group of people to see her off, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“To be honest, I was surprised to hear that Svetlana was hosting the party.”

“Why?”

“Well…she doesn’t seem like the type.”

“To throw parties?”

“To like people.”

Ian laughs so hard he shakes a bit. Mickey laughs lightly beside him.

“No offense. I mean, I know she’s your friend.”

Ian calms himself and shakes his head.

“No offense taken. You’re right. She doesn’t like very many people. She’s extremely loyal, though, when she does like you. She likes Greta so…”

Mickey nods.

“Good to know.”

Before Ian is able to further their conversation, Adam walks over and puts his hand on the small of Mickey’s back. Ian tries very hard to not clench his jaw in jealously, but he’s not entirely sure he succeeds. Neither Adam nor Mickey seems to notice as they look at each other before Mickey turns back to Ian.

“Ian, this is Adam, my boyfriend.”

Adam holds out his hand and Ian shakes it, making his grip as firm as can be reasonably explained. Adam smiles.

“Ian Gallagher. I’ve read some of your work. You’re really good.”

Ian feigns a modest expression.

“Thank you. What works in particular have you read?”

Adam smiles and gives a slight shrug.

“Can’t remember their names to be honest.”

Ian hums and refrains from punching Adam in the face. Adam looks at Mickey.

“I want to introduce you to that editor I was telling you about. She’s here.”

Mickey nods.

“It was good to see you again, Ian.”

“You too.”

Ian spends the rest of the night being a piss poor sport.

* * *

 

He and Lip have dinner.

He half listens as Lip talks about the progress he’s made with his dissertation. He’s studying quantum technology at the University of Chicago and is so consumed with his work that he doesn’t have much of a social life anymore. Although, he still makes time for family. A comment aimed to cause a feeling of guilt within Ian.

It’s not that Ian is avoiding them on purpose. He’s been busy with writing and reaching for a man that he’s not entirely sure will reach back. He doesn’t tell this to Lip. He just makes promises to attend more family dinners. He can tell that Lip doesn’t really believe him. Eventually, Lip broaches the inevitable subject.

“How are you feeling?”

Ian takes a drink of water and leans back in his chair.

“Fine.”

Lip rolls his eyes.

“I’d appreciate more than a one word answer.”

Ian clenches his jaw.

“There’s nothing to report. The medications are fine. I see my psychiatrist. I sleep. I eat. I am a fully functioning human being.”

“Tone down the attitude. I only ask because I care.”

Ian rubs at his mouth and then looks at the table. Lip stares at him before continuing.

“Are you working? You always get huffy when you’re not working.”

“I’m working.”

“So then what is it?”

Ian sighs and then leans forward to look at his brother.

“There’s a guy.”

“A guy.”

“Yes. He’s a photographer. His name’s Mickey Milkovich.”

“If your wondrous tone is any indication, I’m assuming you’re not together.”

Ian shakes his head.

“There’s a boyfriend. Adam. Some hack writer.”

He pauses, taking a breath. Exhales.

“Mickey knows I exist. But just barely.”

“So what do you plan to do?”

Ian looks Lip dead in the eye.

“I plan to win.”

* * *

 

He and a couple of other poets participate in a reading hosted by Columbia College.

It’s a rather large group of people who attend. Larger than what Ian had anticipated. He has a couple of new poems he plans on reading tonight, and there’s always that nervous energy that accompanies the uncertainty of his work’s reception. He stands outside until one of the organizers comes to tell him that it’s almost his time to read. He follows her in and waits until he’s introduced before approaching the podium. Ian looks out into the crowd of college students, a few professors, and some friends before he notices a very familiar face sitting in the middle of the crowd.

Mickey.

Ian clears his throat.

“If you’ve come for balance, you won’t find it here.”

His words flow from his lips, painting a portrait of a house built on the sickness of a mother and a father and a son. He moves to another poem about the color red and how it stains what it touches, floors and bathtubs and kitchen knives. His last poem, one of a set that has consumed his life for the past few weeks is read directly to Mickey. Ian looks at him from the podium and tells him about the beauty that could be between them, entices him with visions of rough hands and pliable lips.

He damn near whispers his last lines.

“I’ll fulfill you. I’ll leave you in awe.”

Ian doesn’t acknowledge the clapping. He walks from the podium and returns to the outside, lighting a cigarette as soon as he hits fresh air. It’s not until the end of the night, when people are leaving and the goodbyes have been said, that Ian is approached.

When Mickey says hello.

* * *

 

They begin to meet.

It’s never for anything more than coffee, but they attend the same art shows and readings. Mickey still attends with his boyfriend sometimes, but Ian overlooks that.

Because Mickey searches for him anyway.

And one day…one day Ian offers to pose for Mickey. To add his visage to the series that Mickey is working on. Mickey hesitates – of course he hesitates – because this is not just an offer for art. This is an offer for love.

And he has another to consider.

But one afternoon Ian climbs the stairs to Mickey’s studio and with sure hands and surer mouths, they chart new waters, a new country, a new world.

Afterwards, Ian arranges himself so that his head is cradled within the nook of Mickey’s neck and shoulder and an arm is draped across Mickey’s chest. They lie in silence until Ian whispers.

“Leave him.”

And Mickey responds.

“Okay.”


	2. Chapter 2

No one cared about their story when they were alive is what she tells them.

It is what she always tells them. They were the only ones who cared. And it wasn’t until a grad student stumbled across Mickey’s work and delved further into his life – their lives – that people started to care. That books started to be written. That authors and journalists started knocking on her door.

They ask if she has read the books. She has.

They ask if she has attended the exhibits showcasing Mickey’s work. She hasn’t.

They ask if she agrees with the Gallagher family’s decision to not sell the rights to Ian’s words for a film. She does.

She exhales as she stubs out her cigarette, looking away from the interviewer. All eyes are on her, waiting for her to continue.

She sighs.

* * *

 

Mickey is unused to this.

This passion. This intensity. This obsession.

He is not used to wholeheartedly raveling his life with another’s. Having the other wholeheartedly do it in turn. For weeks, his life has been nothing but heat and sweat. Sighs and whispers. Limbs and sheets.

By the time they surface and make their official debut, everyone already knows. Everyone has heard about Mickey extracting himself from Adam’s life, about his belongings in Ian’s apartment, about each other’s work being molded from one another’s skin.

It doesn’t matter what people know, Mickey thinks.

It has nothing to do with them anyway.

* * *

 

They cling to each other as Ian moves inside of him, deep and slow.

Mickey is floored by the sensuality of it. The way they move together…it’s like this is all their bodies have ever known. Mickey murmurs words of encouragement until the pleasure reaches its apex, overwhelming them both.

Later, once they have caught their breath and Ian is no longer inside of him, he traces Ian’s spine, feeling each vertebrae. Goosebumps rise on Ian’s hot skin. Ian looks at him with devotion in his eyes.

“I love you.”

Mickey smiles softly.

“I love you, too.”

He laughs.

Something he never thought he’d do while being consumed by fire.

* * *

 

Svetlana comes for dinner.

There had been complaints about Ian’s prolonged absence so they agree to host her for the evening. They touch constantly. Nothing to cause a blush or discomfort but enough to remind each other that they are theirs. Mickey feels Svetlana’s eyes on them. He can feel her tallying every brush, every grip. By the time they sit for dinner, she expresses her disdain.

“You’re both ridiculous.”

Ian looks at her sharply.

“What?”

She traces the rim of her wineglass.

“I said you’re ridiculous. You touch as if you’ll be torn asunder at any moment. It makes me wonder how real this is if you have to cling as hard as you do.”

Ian pushes away from the table, the scrape of the chair ringing in the silent room. He storms into the kitchen, leaving Mickey and Svetlana alone at the table. She picks up her knife and fork and begins to cut into the chicken Ian made. Mickey watches her, completely confused about what just occurred. A minute or two passes before he speaks to her in a harsh tone.

“What are you doing?”

She looks up.

“Eating.”

“No, I meant –"

Ian walks back to the table, sits down, drinks from his wineglass, and begins to eat. He then addresses Svetlana.

“I spoke with Greta today.”

“How is she?”

The two of them carry on with conversation, exchanging gossip and pleasantries while Mickey remains completely lost. He has no idea what game it is they’re playing, but he does not believe he has a place in it. Not yet anyway.

The rest of the evening goes smoothly, all acting as though nothing upsetting was said. When Svetlana finally leaves, he and Ian lie in bed. He lies on his stomach, half on Ian and half on the bed. He runs his fingers through Ian’s hair while Ian does the same to him. It’s then that he asks.

“What was that tonight?”

“What?”

“Svetlana. What she said.”

Ian sighs.

“She believes that love is a theory.”

“She’s wrong.”

“I know.”

Ian kisses him.

She’s wrong.

* * *

 

Mickey’s paying for his coffee when he feels the slip of paper in his pocket.

He waits until he’s outside before unfolding it, before reading the words that have flowed from Ian’s pen.

_My soul recognized you from the beginning._

Mickey smiles. Ian does this. He writes these beautiful visions and slips them into Mickey’s pockets. Words like these cause heat to rise in him. Words like these seem to promise forever.

He knows it’s irrational to think like this so early. They have only known each other for three months, have only been together for one. But these aren’t rational feelings. He believes that they moved past that weeks ago.

He walks to his studio and begins his work. He spends most of his day in the dark room, losing himself in the rhythm of transferring photos from each developing tank. It always amazes him, the slow process of watching images – his images – take form on pieces of paper. Each time it happens, a thrill runs through him, like he’s surprised to find anything there at all. Like all of his hard work is actually worth something.

Once all of the film is developed and he’s ready to go home, he walks back into the dark room and sweeps aside a small black curtain. Underneath is a board with slips of paper pinned to it. Each slip carries declarations of devotion, adoration, and passion from whom he strongly suspects is the love of his life. He looks over them, tracing the lettering, blushing as he reads the last note Ian wrote him.

_I only feel complete when I’m inside you._

Mickey takes today’s note out of his pocket and pins it to the board. He smiles and then turns to leave.

Ian is waiting for him at home.

* * *

 

He meets Ian’s family.

Ian had been desperate for them to meet, wanting to show his family how well he chose. But the neighborhood terrifies Mickey. He grew up a few blocks away, and although his father has been dead for years now, that fear remains. The blood and fists and suppressed thoughts and tears continue to rattle him, continue to fill his life with dread.

He had carefully described his childhood to Ian who was able to relate to a certain extent. He too suffered at the hands of a drunken abusive father; was manipulated by a mentally unstable mother. But he would never understand how damaged Mickey was, how long it took an emotionally stunted self-hating gay teenager to pull himself out of the shit in which he was raised.

Mickey had strongly encouraged Ian to invite his family to their home, but Ian’s family insisted on the Gallagher house. They were more comfortable with pizza and beer in a dilapidated house than whatever Ian would cook in an apartment in Edgewater. So they go.

And it is…it just is.

Liam answers the door and gives a short smile and a quick “hello” when Ian introduces him to Mickey before being re-absorbed in his phone. Carl, who had clearly pre-gamed, gives a nod before returning his attention back to the television. Ian’s annoyed and flustered. He was obviously hoping for a much better reaction.

He receives it from Fiona and Debbie.

They give each other hugs before Ian presents Mickey to them like one would a prized possession. Mickey doesn’t mind. After never belonging to anyone, he enjoys belonging to Ian.

He’s greeted with warm smiles and welcome arms. There’s a small exchange of pleasantries before Fiona serves dinner. Spaghetti and homemade garlic bread. Mickey can tell that she’s made an effort to make the night special, being as lavish as she can on a sparse income. He appreciates it.

He sits next to Ian who places his hand on Mickey’s, a light touch that ties them to each other. He sees Debbie glimpse at this small gesture and give a gentle smile. Just as Mickey takes his first bite, the front door opens and in strolls Ian’s older brother, Lip. He grabs a plate while excusing his tardiness and sits across from Ian and Mickey. Introductions are made and Mickey feels the wave of wariness emanating from Lip. Fiona is the one who talks though.

“Ian says you’re a photographer.”

Mickey nods.

“Yeah.”

Ian interjects.

“He has a show coming up in two weeks to which you’re all invited.”

He looks over at Ian who is beaming at him. Mickey clears his throat.

“Yeah, of course. It would be great if you all came.”

Fiona smiles at him.

“We’d love to go. Right?”

She looks around the table for confirmation. Debbie is the only one to respond.

“Absolutely.”

The rest of the dinner carries on in this form with the four of them doing the talking. It’s awkward, and Mickey steps outside to smoke as soon as the opportunity presents itself. He stands on their front porch when he hears the door open and close behind him. Lip stands next to him, leaning slightly on the railing.

They smoke in silence. Mickey clears his throat.

“Say what you want to say.”

Lip chuckles.

“Not one for easing into a conversation, huh?”

Mickey looks at his cigarette. Shrugs.

“You and my brother are moving too fast. You’ve only been together a month and you’re already living with each other.”

“We’ve been together six weeks.”

Lip ignores his correction.

“I get that you probably had nowhere to go after leaving your boyfriend –"

“I could have moved in with my sister.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I wanted to be with Ian.”

“He’s sick.”

Mickey finally looks at him.

“I know.”

“I don’t think you do.”

A silence descends. Lip taps ash off his cigarette.

“He has the habit of downplaying his illness. He denies still having symptoms, but he’s lying. He hates when we meddle – when _I_ meddle – but I didn’t for a very long time.”

Lip looks across the street. Mickey does too, and they watch a stray dog disappear into the alley.

“I was the one who found him.”

Lip clears his throat.

“Did he tell you about that? I’m sure he did. He probably described it to you with florid words. He probably romanticized his depression. His desperation. He’s always been good at that, you know? Taking thoughts and feelings and turning them into irrefutable truths. He’s been doing it since we were kids. There’s this memory he has. I’m sure he’s told you. About us getting into a fight? About me abandoning him at a park? And how he spent hours wandering around because he couldn’t remember how to get home?”

Mickey nods. Ian told him this story. He was seven and was terrified of never seeing his family again.

“It never happened.”

Mickey furrows his brow.

“We did get into a fight at a park, but I didn’t abandon him. We walked home together. He was a couple of steps behind me, but he was never alone. When we got home, he went into our room and didn’t leave it for the rest of the day. The next morning, he starts telling Fiona that I left him at a park. That he hadn’t been able to find his way home. That it took him hours. It took me years before I figured out why he would say this. He felt abandoned. And if he felt it then it happened, and no matter how many times I’ve tried talking to him about this, he has always maintained the same story. It’s the gospel according to Ian.”

Mickey tosses away his cigarette.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you need to know what you’re getting yourself into. My brother is a good man. He’s kind, and loving, and loyal, and a bunch of other things that most people will never be. But he is also impulsive and unsteady. And he can be incredibly cruel.”

Lip turns. He has his hand on the doorknob when Mickey stops him.

“You said you found him.”

Lip nods.

“In the upstairs bathroom. He and Fiona got into a fight. He wanted to punish her.”

Mickey scoffs.

“You’re lying.”

Lip slowly shakes his head.

“No. I’m not.”

He walks into the house.

* * *

 

The day of Mickey’s show arrives.

He’s so nervous that he spends most of the night with his hands in his pockets to hide the shaking. He makes the rounds, talking to art critics while Ian does a fantastic job of charming potential buyers. Fiona and Debbie come to show their support. Fiona expresses her admiration of his work.

“I know absolutely nothing about art, but I think you’re amazing.”

Mickey introduces Ian’s family to his own. Mandy and Iggy came as well. This is the first time Iggy has ever seen his work; he gives Mickey a smile and a pat on the back. Ian works to impress them both, making sure they always have a drink in their hand and explaining Mickey’s motivation behind this series in a way that Mickey never could.

Mickey and Ian are speaking with the gallery owner Andrew when Svetlana flits in. She touches her cheek to Ian’s in greeting.

“You’re late.”

She sniffs.

“Couldn’t be helped. Henry isn’t doing well.”

Ian remains silent as Svetlana looks at Mickey and gives him a small smile. It doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Congratulations.”

Mickey nods at her and turns to continue speaking with Andrew. She finds Ian staring at her.

“What? It’s not my fault he doesn’t believe that was genuine.”

Ian rolls his eyes.

Later, Ian and Mandy are standing in front of the focal point of Mickey’s series. It’s a photograph of Ian’s back. His head his bowed, muscles taut. His red hair and freckles are on display. Mandy stares at it. She directs a question to Ian.

“Is this the photo?”

“What photo?”

“The one that started it all. The one that led to you two.”

Ian smiles.

“Yes.”

Mandy steps closer to the photograph. She whispers.

“He gave up so much to be with you. You have to love him with everything you have.”

“I do.”

Mandy turns to him with tears in her eyes.

“You better.”

* * *

 

His show wasn’t a complete success.

He sold only two photographs and received one review which wasn’t exactly overflowing with praise. The disappointment eats away at him. Ian can sense it and tries to soften the blow as much as he can, but Mickey’s lack of achievement keeps him from working.

He focuses on Ian’s work instead. On the scratch of pen on paper. On the words Ian so delicately and painstakingly composes into sentences and phrases. He offers his own critiques, thrilling when Ian takes his suggestions into consideration. He’s the proud boyfriend at each reading, sitting front and center, encouraging Ian through his trepidation.

One night after a reading hosted by DePaul University, Mickey looks over at Ian, at the way the fluorescent lights from the El platform shine on his hair. He reaches for his hand, and Ian allows himself to be pulled close. Their foreheads rest against each other’s, and in a sure voice, Mickey speaks.

“Marry me.”

“Yes.”

* * *

 

Iggy expresses his concern.

It’s not that he doesn’t like Ian – he does – but he feels that it’s too soon, too fast. They’ve only been together two months. Mickey’s setting himself up for heartbreak.

Mandy, on the other hand, understands. She knows that when something as wonderful as what Mickey has falls into a person’s lap, that person should hang on with bloody fingernails.

Ian’s family has the same reaction that Iggy does. There’s an unsettling silence after their announcement, followed by Lip storming out of the house and Fiona giving a tight smile and half-hearted hugs.

Svetlana’s reaction is by far the worst. Ian tells her over lunch at her apartment. She stares at him in disbelief.

“Who asked whom?”

“He asked me.”

She stands from the table, grabbing her plate and stomping into the kitchen. Ian follows her.

“I don’t understand why you’re so upset.”

She throws the dish into the sink. It breaks.

“Are you manic? Are you not taking your medication?”

Ian’s anger is evident.

“Why would you ask me that?”

“Because that is the only explanation for this lunacy. Why would you agree to marriage?”

“I love him and want to spend the rest of my life with him.”

“You don’t need marriage for that.”

Ian glares at her before leaving the kitchen. Svetlana reaches him before he walks out the door, grabbing him by the shoulders, her nails digging into his skin.

“You know what happens when you get married? Someone becomes the person who stays at home, cooking and cleaning and raising the children while the other is out fucking their pubescent mistress. You do not want that.”

Ian shakes her off, but she pulls him back, her grip harsh.

“Someone always loves more. And that’s the person who gets left.”

He lowers his voice, his tone threatening.

“You don’t know anything about us.”

He rips out of her grasp, pushing her away when she reaches for him again.

He slams the door when he leaves.

* * *

 

In the end, only Mandy and Henry attend the courthouse ceremony.

They celebrate with dinner at Gibson’s. The next morning, Mickey and Ian leave for their honeymoon in Barcelona.

Six days in, Ian receives a call.

Henry committed suicide.

* * *

 

She asks to take a break.


	3. Chapter 3

She smokes three cigarettes outside.

She doesn’t cry. She never has. She was raised in a house that despised any show of emotion. Stiff upper lip and all of that.

But talking about this, about Henry’s suicide, about Ian and Mickey…

She’s explaining love and tragedy to children. And what do children know?

Someone comes out to fetch her, asking if she’s ready to continue. She goes back inside. Back to the room. Back to the armchair they placed her in. Back to the questions.

What happened next? They ask.

What happened next? She thinks.

What happened?

* * *

 

The funeral is small.

Henry’s estranged sister gives the eulogy. Svetlana sits there, listening to a woman reminisce about someone she had no communication with for twelve years. She doesn’t know who he was. She doesn’t understand him, or his work, or his struggles.

Her eyes travel to the pew kitty corner from her, brushing over Ian and Mickey, their stoic frames dressed in black. Ian turns his head and meets her eyes. She knows they’re both thinking the same thing.

_He cried every year at the first snow._

 

Svetlana and Ian stand outside Henry’s sister house, where the reception is being held, smoking. She breaks first.

“I thought he had outgrown this.”

Ian shakes his head.

“It’s not something you can outgrow. Once the thought is in your head, once it’s an option, it never leaves you. It’s like that spider. You know that spider? The one that burrows itself into the ground and waits for its prey to pass by? Then it grabs it and drags it down. The element of surprise. It just catches you. Drags you into the dark.”

She takes a breath. Exhales. Takes the grief and balls it up, stuffs it at the bottom, underneath meaningless things. Ian puts his arm around her. And they stand like this.

Their trio cut to two.

 

That night, Ian seeks refuge in Mickey. Molds himself to Mickey’s body. And Mickey holds him.

Takes his grief and holds that too.

* * *

 

Mickey wanders the city.

He’s had no inspiration, no idea what to focus on or photograph. He wanders, covering different neighborhoods in the hopes of finding something to trigger him. Something that will stand out and say _yes, it’s me. I am what you’ve been combing for_.

But nothing comes.

So he wanders.

 

Ian on the other hand writes in a white hot heat.

He churns out poem after poem, weaving words like Persian rugs.

Elegantly. Painstakingly.

His dedication is admirable to say the least. He spends hours in his small study writing about what he knows best: himself. It’s confessional poetry at its finest. Sexton and Plath would be proud.

He sends out his work to several magazines in the hopes of receiving some acknowledgment. It’s one thing to be semi-known in the art community of Chicago. It’s quite another to find one’s work placed on a national stage. Mickey is the one who mails them out.

Each is sent off with a kiss for luck.

* * *

 

Ian invites his family over for dinner.

This is the first time that they would be over since Mickey moved in over four months ago, and Ian wants to make it special. He wants to show his family that despite their apprehensions he and Mickey are happily married. He wants to show them that they were wrong.

The issue is that Mickey comes home frustrated because he can’t work. He’s wandered the city for weeks now but hasn’t taken a single photo. He tells Ian he cannot deal with his family right now. Can’t deal with their disapproving looks and pessimistic outlook of their relationship. Ian’s angry because this dinner has been planned for two weeks. Words like “selfish” and “inconsiderate” are hurled until Mickey storms into their bedroom, slamming the door. Ian cancels the dinner, feigning illness. Lip is the only one who doesn’t pretend to believe this.

“You two arguing?”

“No.”

“Yes, you are. The honeymoon over already? It’s only been two months.”

Ian hangs up then wanders into his study. He sits at his desk and stares at his hands. Bitten nails. A paper cut on his right thumb. He grabs his composition book and begins to write.

_I’m blind, you scream._

_I’m fucking blind._

_Milky film,_

_And me without a cure._

Hours pass before he puts down his pen. He stretches and walks to the bedroom. Mickey’s not there. A slight panic sets in until he sees the closed bathroom door. He opens it and finds Mickey in the bath. His eyes are closed, head leaning back. Ian enters, closing the door quietly behind him. He sees Mickey tense slightly. He slowly disrobes before stepping into the bath, positioning himself across from his husband. Mickey adjusts his legs, making room for Ian’s. The water is warm. He hasn’t been in the bath long.

The silence sits between them until Ian breaks it with a whisper.

“Talk to me.”

Mickey takes a deep breath but remains quiet. Ian tries again.

“Tell me.”

Mickey’s voice comes out raspy.

“I can’t work.”

He clears his throat.

“I can’t work. I’m looking for it, but I can’t find it, Ian. I don’t know where it is.”

Ian licks his lips.

“What do you know the best?”

Mickey opens his eyes; lifts his head.

“What?”

“What do you know the best? What emotion or what person, or thing do you know the best? What can you identify with the most?”

Mickey furrows his brow. Looks away.

“Mickey…”

He turns back to look at Ian.

“Fear. I know fear.”

Ian’s hands shake. He clasps them together under the water.

“Then use it.”

Mickey looks down. Taps his finger on the water.

Watches the ripples grow.

* * *

 

In Mickey’s mind, fear and pain are intimately connected.

The way he was raised…they were all he knew for years and years. So Ian is right. He should use it.

He starts with himself. Mickey sets up his equipment, adjusting the lens and reflectors to his liking. He then takes off his shirt and turns his back to the camera. With each click, he feels more and more exposed, knowing that the long scars on his back – from belts and extension cords and even a branch once – are highlighted to the best of his ability.

He photographs the cigarette burns on his thighs next. Those were self-inflicted. He had read about aversion therapy once back when he was terrified of being gay, of knowing that wanting and loving another man could very well lead to his own demise. He had made an attempt to “correct” himself. It should be noted that the research he read about was unethical, inhumane, flawed, and incredibly traumatizing to those who participated. But he tried it anyway. He was desperate.

And ashamed.

But it didn’t work. Of course it didn’t work. He knew it wouldn’t.

By the time he’s taken all of the photos he wants, he is so emotionally spent that he leaves his equipment where it is and heads home. He collapses into Ian’s arms as soon as he can, comforting himself in the warmth of the man he loves.

Later that night, Ian kisses and runs his tongue along every scar on Mickey’s body.

And Mickey doesn’t feel ashamed once.

* * *

 

Mickey is working again.

He credits Ian for this, and Ian revels in it. Prides himself on being Mickey’s muse, his inspiration. Likes knowing that Mickey takes his advice to heart.

Ian loves this. The artistic family they’re creating. He begins to dream of additions, of shaping a life, of nurturing a being with majestic words and timeless images.

Not yet, Mickey says.

Not yet.

So Ian waits and dreams.

* * *

 

Mickey meets Mandy and Iggy for dinner.

It’s nothing fancy. They go to the Giordano’s by Curie High School since Iggy works there and Mandy lives nearby. They mainly just eat pizza and talk shit to each other before Mickey gathers up the courage to talk about his new series. He clears his throat.

“So I started working again.”

Mandy looks over at him.

“Really?”

He nods his head.

“Yeah. The direction is a bit darker than what I’m used to.”

“What is it?”

Mickey looks at his hands.

“Fear. And pain.”

Iggy furrows his brow.

“You’re taking pictures of people’s pain? You artists are fucking weird.”

“Well, essentially, I’m taking photos of people’s scars. I…I took photos of mine.”

Iggy and Mandy fall silent. Mickey looks between the both of them.

“And I was wondering –"

Iggy cuts him off.

“Jesus Christ. Who’s fucking idea was this? Ian’s?”

“It doesn’t-"

“I fucking knew it. He would bring up all this old shit.”

Iggy pushes his chair back roughly and stands up.

“Iggy…”

“Fuck him. And fuck you for going along with it.”

Mickey watches as Iggy startles a waitress while storming out. He turns to look at Mandy.

“Mandy…”

She clears her throat and scoots out from the table.

“I’m going to go.”

“No, Mandy, I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have –"

“I’ll talk to you later.”

With that, Mickey finds himself alone at the table and stuck with the check.

* * *

 

Ian is worried.

Mickey should have been home two hours ago. Although he could have simply gotten caught up with his family, Ian suspects that this is not the case. He has called and texted but hasn’t received any response. He puts on his shoes, grabs his jacket and keys, and sets out to look for his husband.

He heads straight to Mickey’s studio, letting himself in with the key he received after their second week together. This is how he knew Mickey was as devoted as he was, to trust him with something as irreplaceable and sacred as his art.

He walks up the stairs to find Mickey sitting on a stool in the dark. Mickey’s lost in his own mind.

“Hey.”

Mickey startles and grabs his chest.

“Jesus Christ. You scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry.”

Ian walks towards him, stopping a foot or two away. Mickey looks up at him and reaches for him. The gap is closed between them when Mickey wraps his arms around Ian’s waist, resting his head on Ian’s stomach. Ian runs one hand through Mickey’s hair while the other rests softly on Mickey’s shoulder. They stand like this for some time, lost in the quiet, lost in the comfort each other bring. Ian speaks first.

“What happened?”

Mickey breathes deeply.

“They were angry. When I asked…they were angry.”

Ian suspected this would happen. He has learned over time that the children Milkovich do not do well when confronted with the past, unlike the Gallaghers who cannot let it go.

“I’m sorry.”

Mickey pulls Ian in tighter.

“It was so bad for us. Our dad. I remember thinking as a kid that all I wanted was to make it out of that house alive.”

Ian wraps his arms around Mickey’s shoulders and pulls him closer still.

“You did. Terry is dead. You three made it out alive.”

Mickey pulls back a little to look up at Ian. The moonlight coming through the window reflects on the tears in his eyes.

“Did we? Some days…I’m not sure we did.”

He puts his head back down.

And Ian tries not to cry.

* * *

 

With help from their friend Amy, who teaches at the American Academy of Art, Mickey advertises for models.

Students who are looking for a few bucks and a chance to be immortalized on film become an almost permanent fixture in Mickey’s studio. A few other professors as well have come to have their own evidence of fear photographed. Mickey is in a session with a girl named Claudia who suffered from third degree burns when she was twelve. They both turn towards the door when they hear pounding up the stairs. Ian comes barging in and rushes to Mickey, grabbing him and kissing him hard. By the time Ian pulls away, Mickey is out of breath and trying not to drop his camera. Ian thrusts a piece of paper at him, pulling his camera out of his hands at the same time. Mickey reads the letter, a smile slowly spreading on his face the more he reads. He looks up at Ian.

“Holy shit.”

Ian laughs.

“ _Harper’s_ offered me $300 for one of my poems. And did you see where they said they wanted to read more of my work?”

Mickey nods his head and beams at Ian.

“I’m so proud of you.”

Ian smiles and kisses him again. They hear someone clearing their throat behind them. They pull apart and turn to look at the person who dares to interrupt their celebratory kiss. Claudia is staring at them both.

“Um…are you going to keep taking pictures or are we done?”

Mickey smiles.

“No, let’s keep working.”

He turns to Ian.

“Sorry, I have to…”

Ian shakes his head.

“Of course. But we’re celebrating tonight.”

“I’ll bring home champagne.”

Ian kisses him once more before leaving.

 

Later, Ian and Mickey drink two bottles of champagne and make love three times.

* * *

 

They attend a gallery show for some new up and coming artist.

His name is Paul, and he’s Andrew’s new pet project. Introductions are made, and Ian cannot help the intense anger and jealousy that unfurls in him when Paul slides his eyes over Mickey. He and Mickey shake hands, and it takes every ounce of self-control Ian has to not punch Paul in the face. Ian steers Mickey away from him and towards a safer crowd of people.

They’re talking to Jessica and Jacob – a rather interesting couple if their stories of art and depravity are to be believed – when Svetlana comes strolling in. She pays her respects to the artist and gallery owner before making her way towards Ian and Mickey. She air kisses Mickey and hugs Ian before turning to look at the other couple.

“Oh my, is this what famous artists look like nowadays? You both look like you haven’t showered in weeks.”

Mickey’s eyes widen, and Ian looks away to hide his burgeoning smile. Jacob grabs Jessica’s hand and pulls her away, but not before Jessica flips Svetlana off. Svetlana smiles and looks at Ian.

“I always despised her. She once told Henry his work was uninspired.”

She then turns to Mickey and smirks.

“Mickey, dear, go have a cigarette. I need to speak with your husband.”

Mickey looks to Ian who shrugs before rolling his eyes and doing as he’s told. Svetlana threads her arm through Ian’s and leads him to a sculpture. She tilts her head while examining it.

“I see Andrew is judging talent with his dick again.”

She peeks over her shoulder at Paul.

“Although I can see why. He’s very attractive.”

Ian looks over at Paul and scoffs.

“He’s a middle schooler whose balls haven’t dropped yet. I was surprised to find his voice didn’t sound like Minnie Mouse’s.”

Svetlana laughs.

“Careful, Ian, your claws are showing.”

He looks at her before looking back at Paul.

“There’s something about him I don’t like.”

“Does it have anything to do with the way he looks at Mickey?”

He frowns while she continues with her observation.

“I noticed that he watches Mickey like one would a promising meal. I would keep an eye on that one if I were you.”

Ian looks at Paul again.

 

Ian returns from the restroom to find Andrew, Paul, and Mickey speaking about Mickey’s recent series.

Mickey explains his thought processes and what he’s been able to gather so far. Ian positions himself next to him, sliding his hand down to entwine with Mickey’s. He sees Paul’s eyes dart to their clasped hands before meeting Ian’s eye. Ian arches an eyebrow. He then focuses on the conversation. He waits until Mickey pauses before entering it.

“We should have you over for dinner, and Mickey can show you what he has so far.”

He looks to Mickey for confirmation. Mickey nods his head.

“Yeah, absolutely. Ian will cook something incredibly fancy, and once you’re drunk on all the wine I’ll serve you, I’ll secure an exhibition date.”

Andrew laughs.

“We’d love too.”

Ian looks at Paul who smirks back.

* * *

 

Ian complains to Svetlana.

He can’t express his feelings about this to Mickey for obvious reasons, but Svetlana will listen to him rant for hours and will even join in. He’s rushing around the kitchen, stirring and sautéing and chopping while Svetlana sips wine and watches him. Fear prickles her spine, but she doesn’t know why. Ian finally stops and looks at her.

“I don’t want that man in my house.”

“It’s too late to cancel now.”

He sighs.

“This is ridiculous. I don’t know why this is bothering me as much as it is.”

He shakes his head and then rubs his eyes. He’s trying to keep himself together. She can see it; she’s reminded of Henry. He whispers.

“I have a presentiment. Something bad is coming.”

She nods her head.

She feels it too.

 

Svetlana is relentless.

She rings the buzzer repeatedly until Mickey comes down. He’s surprised to see her.

“What are you doing here?”

“I need to speak with you.”

She pushes past him and walks up the stairs to his studio. She looks around, noting all of the photography equipment, the dark room door. She walks over to the table where Mickey has laid out the photos he will be showing Andrew. She murmurs.

“You have impressive talent.”

She looks over her shoulder at him before looking back at the photos. She picks two out, one of a woman with burn scars and another of a man with scars along his arm. She lays these to the side. She then arranges the remainder of the pictures until she is satisfied.

“This is the order you should present them. It flows better.”

He walks closer and peers over her shoulder. He looks at the two she set aside.

“Why did you take those out?”

“They don’t fit in with the story you’re trying to tell. She’s a survivor and he just looks like he tangled with thorns. They’re distracting.”

“All of these people are survivors. Besides, I like them.”

She huffs.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You know I’m right.”

He doesn’t comment.

“I notice you don’t have Ian.”

She feels Mickey tense and take a couple of steps back.

“I wouldn’t ask him to do that.”

She turns and watches as he walks towards his tripod and fusses with it. She leans against the table.

“It’s interesting, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“That you don’t have Ian in this series. In the last show, he was your centerpiece. In this one, it’ll be you. Trying to stay out of his shadow, are you?”

She notices a pack of cigarettes on the edge of the table. She grabs it and pulls one out, reaching for the lighter that sits next to it. She lights her cigarette and inhales, all the while enjoying the way Mickey is looking at her. She meets his eye.

“I have to admit that once you were married I wondered who would be the true artist and who would be the man behind him. I have always suspected Ian to be the one in the wings. He’s so completely devoted to you. You should see him now, clamoring around the kitchen, cooking and setting down cutlery as if he’s going to win some kind of award. It’s maddening.”

She steps away from the table, taking off her coat. She tosses it on a chair and makes her way towards a stool, grabbing it and setting it down in front of the camera. She sits down. Mickey stares at her.

“Take my picture.”

He remains still. She grows impatient.

“Take it.”

He adjusts the lens, angling the camera this way and that until it suits him. She hears the camera click.

“He’s sick you know.”

Click.

“I know.”

Click.

“You don’t.”

Click.

“You can’t tell me anything I haven’t been told before.” “

Stop.”

He does.

“He’s reminding me of Henry.”

There are tears along her cheeks and a heartbreaking expression on her face. Smoke rises from her cigarette.

Click.

Decades from now, this portrait will be sold in postcard size at art museums.

* * *

 

Ian laughs easily enough during dinner.

He is forever the charming host, refilling wine glasses and serving food as though he was born to do so. Mickey can discuss art with the best of them, and Andrew is thoroughly impressed. Ian does everything he can to not look Paul’s way, but he does sneak glances once or twice. He doesn’t like what he sees.

They move to the living room where Ian serves coffee and dessert. Makes a joke about the useless fireplace. Just there to make them feel wealthy, he says. Mickey shows Andrew his portfolio. Paul leans in to look as well. Mickey doesn’t say a word, letting his art speak for itself. Ian kisses Mickey’s temple and rubs his arm. Paul is the first to comment.

“These are amazing. I love the way your lighting highlights the scars. Makes you want to run your finger across them.”

Mickey nods.

“Thanks.”

He looks at Andrew.

“So what do you think?”

Andrew hums.

“They’re good. Better than your last series.”

He looks up at Mickey.

“I’ll look at the calendar. See what day I can give you.”

Mickey beams.

 

After Andrew and Paul are gone, after the dishes have been washed and put away, Ian lies on the bed while Mickey kisses his chest. He licks at a nipple, sucking so that Ian arches off the bed and grabs the back of Mickey’s head, pulling him closer. Mickey moves to the other nipple, performing the same act. He pulls away and kisses up Ian’s chest before lowering his mouth to Ian’s. They kiss slowly. There has never been a need to rush. Mickey ends the kiss and whispers.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For everything. For tonight. For marrying me. For loving me.”

Ian smiles.

“You’re welcome.”

They both laugh.

They kiss and kiss until Mickey pulls away again. He looks at Ian with a furrowed brow.

“You would tell me if you were feeling sick, right? You wouldn’t keep that from me?”

Ian swallows. Shakes his head. The sound of his hair rustling on the pillow.

“I’m not feeling sick.”

Mickey’s insistent.

“But you would tell me?”

“Yes.”

Mickey relaxes and leans in for another kiss.

 

Mickey is given the date.

April 17th.

* * *

 

Ian starts talking to small publishing companies.

It’s nothing serious really, just testing the waters so to speak. He wants to know what the probability is of him being able to publish his first book of poems. He has to look at all of his options. He sent _Harper’s_ three more poems. They only bought one. He wants more though. He wants his work out there. It’s not enough to do small readings anymore. His skin is itching for something bigger.

He writes more and more. Oftentimes, he forgets to eat. Mickey will come home and find him in the same position he left him in, hunched over the desk, pen scribbling furiously. He has to coax him from work, sit him down at the table, make him eat a sandwich. But once he eats, he’s back to writing. It’s another task for Mickey to talk him into coming to bed. Ian’s not tired though. The words are coming so fast to him now that he doesn’t want to waste any time putting them on paper. He’s trying to get published after all.

One night, Ian’s too jittery. He can’t sleep because he’s thinking about all of the words that need to be written. But then he thinks about the bathroom. Does he need to use the bathroom? When was the last time he cleaned the bathroom? He can’t remember. Shit. How dirty is the bathroom?

He gets out of bed and goes to the kitchen where he pulls out a bucket and bleach. He fills the bucket with water and pours some bleach into it. He can’t remember the last time the bathroom was cleaned. The bleach will kill whatever germs there are.

Mickey wakes up at 2:09 in the morning to find Ian on his hands and knees scrubbing the bathroom floor.

His hands are raw.

 

Ian downplays his energy.

He’s just excited about Mickey’s show and about the possibility of Ian publishing a book. That’s all it is. Mickey nods.

That’s all it is.

* * *

 

Mickey is pissed.

He slams the front door shut, startling Ian who is sitting on the couch reading.

“What happened?”

Mickey runs his hands through his hair and starts to pace.

“I lost the show.”

“What?”

“The show. I lost it.”

Ian puts down his book. Sits up straighter.

“What do you me –"

Mickey stops pacing and looks at Ian. He raises his voice.

“I mean that I lost the fucking show. The date that I had, it’s gone. I went to speak with Andrew about it today, and he told me that he was ‘immensely sorry’, but Jacob spoke with him about exhibiting his new work and the date – _my date_ – was the one that worked best for Jacob’s schedule. So basically, fuck me, right?”

Ian gives Mickey an incredulous look.

“Jacob? He paints biomorphic abstract. How does that have any relevance in this day and age? It’s passé.”

“That’s what I said, but because his name is more well known than mine, the safer money’s on him.”

Mickey returns to pacing and running his hands through his hair. Ian stares at him a bit more before sighing.

“Do you want me to talk to him?”

Mickey stops and glares at him.

“And say what exactly? ‘Hey, Andrew, give my husband back his date or else’? Jesus, Ian, I don’t need you fighting my battles.”

“Then what do you need me to do?”

“I don’t –"

Mickey stops midsentence and goes to Ian on the couch, throwing himself down. He leans forward and rubs his hands over his face. He clasps his hands and stares at his shoes.

“I was counting on that show. That was going to be _my_ show. Now…now, I don’t know.”

Ian places his hand on Mickey’s shoulder, pushing slightly until Mickey’s back is resting against the couch. Ian then wraps his arms around him, cuddling him and stroking his hair.

“You’ll get another show.”

Mickey snorts.

“You will. You’ll find another gallery. You’ll get another show. You’ll do so well that Andrew will piss himself to have you do your next show at his gallery. But in the meantime, you’ll continue to work. You’ll work because that’s what you do. You’re brilliant. And they’re going to see that.”

Mickey closes his eyes.

* * *

 

They’re at Amy’s birthday party when they see Paul again.

Ian is standing with Svetlana getting a beer for Mickey when he looks over and sees him. He watches as Paul scans the crowd before making his way through it. Mickey is talking with Amy about a photography teacher who is going on maternity leave when Paul approaches them. He hugs Amy first, wishing her well, before hugging Mickey. Ian tightens his grasp on the beer. He feels Svetlana’s hand on his own.

“Easy.”

He rips his hand out from under hers.

“I’m leaving.”

“Want me to tell Mickey?”

Ian glares at her.

“Don’t tell him shit. If he can’t figure out that I’m gone, then fuck him.”

Ian marches out the door.

 

He walks down the street.

Hunched over and alone, his anger builds as he thinks about that boy. That arrogant, smug little bastard...

He makes Ian feel like he is a mere hindrance. A goddamn hindrance.

Ian becomes angrier. Because now he’s envisioning that boy with Mickey. His husband with a boy who worships him, who craves his attention and praise, who clings to his every word. He tells himself Mickey would never.

Never never never never never.

_But he has, hasn’t he?_ A voice says.

What voice? Whose voice?

A voice. Just a voice.

_Mickey has._

Adam?

_Adam. Remember Adam? Remember “leave him”? Remember “okay”?_

Yes. Yes, he remembers. He did. Mickey did. Leave him. Leave Adam.

_He’ll leave you too._

That voice. That fucking voice.

Mickey leave? Can’t. Can’t let him leave.

_Stop him._

How? How?

Ian shakes his head. How?

_Show him what happens to people who leave._

Ian stops. Looks up.

Mickey’s studio.

He traces the key.

* * *

 

Mickey races home once he realizes that Ian left.

He walks through the door to find a glow coming from the living room. He walks towards it.

The fireplace. The fireplace that is only decoration. That is never used. It’s on.

And Ian is sitting in front of it.

He watches as Ian feeds months of Mickey’s work to the flames.


	4. Chapter 4

They stare at her.

She knows that they are shocked by the brutality of it. The utter raw emotions that emitted from that night. These children will never understand the kind of rage and passion and betrayal that drove Mickey and Ian’s relationship. They only understand storybook romances. Those sold to them by Disney and their ilk. No, children, the story doesn’t end after "happily ever after". The sun rises the next day, and it’ll be discovered that sometimes Prince Charming is riddled with paranoia and delusions, that he is mentally unstable. And sometimes his soulmate will wish that Prince Charming had never found that glass slipper, that it had shattered on the ground instead.

She’s torn from her reverie by their next question.

How did they heal? They ask.

She wants to laugh.

As if they ever could.

* * *

 

Mickey lunges.

His first instinct is to knock his work away from Ian’s hands, but Ian is quicker. He grabs the few remaining photographs and throws them in the fire. Mickey ends up on his hands and knees and watches as the scars on his back curl in the flames. He wants to cry. So desperately. He wants to wail and rend his clothes. Holler about the injustice of it all. His work. _His work_.

Gone.

He hears movement behind him, but he doesn’t turn to look. Eyes remain on the flames. He registers the pounding of feet and the slam of a door. He stares at his hands. They’re shaking. He clenches them into fists. His whole body is shaking. He stands up.

Shaking. Still shaking.

The anger builds. Fire runs in his veins. He screams. Flips over the coffee table. Screams again.

Rage is here. Rage is all he knows.

He stalks to their bedroom and moves to throw open the door. It’s locked. He kicks it open. The door frame splinters, small pieces of wood fly in the air. Ian is sitting on the edge of the bed. He looks up when the door bursts open, but before he can fully react, Mickey grabs him by the shoulders. Shakes him. He shouts.

“What the fuck did you do?”

Ian roughly pushes him away, but Mickey doesn’t relent. He continues to grab at Ian, yelling and swearing. They tangle and fall to the floor. Ian gains the upper hand, and suddenly he is the keeper of rage. He begins to hit Mickey, slaps and screams filling the room.

“Fuck you. Fuck both of you. I fucking hate you.”

Mickey struggles to push Ian away, but Ian is lead. It takes a well timed punch to the gut to get Ian to stop. He hunches over a bit then scrambles for balance, pushing himself up and away. Mickey rushes to stand before Ian can attack again. Ian continues to scream.

“You don’t think I know what you’ve done? Did you think I was just going to look the other way? That I was just going to let it go? Fuck you.”

Mickey stares. Ian is red-faced, tears streaming down his face. He’s sobbing. The words are garbled and he is not making any sense.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Ian yells.

“Paul. I fucking know about you and Paul. Why? Why? What didn’t I give you? You piece of shit. Tell me what didn’t I give you?”

Mickey furrows his brow and speaks in a low tone.

“Ian. I’m not having an affair. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re a fucking liar.”

Mickey looks at him in horror.

“You burnt everything because you think I’m having an affair?”

Ian steps close to him so that they’re eye to eye. In a vindictive tone, he replies.

“Why should I be the only one hurt?”

He turns around and walks out of the bedroom.

Mickey stands frozen in shock. Tries to wrack his brain for some sort of defense. Some way to handle what is going on. All he knows is that Ian ruined everything for him.

He moves quickly. He grabs a suitcase from one of the shelves in their closet and begins to pack. He takes as much as he can, running to the bathroom to collect his toiletries. What he cannot take today, he’ll claim tomorrow. For now, he just needs to leave.

He makes his way towards the front door, suitcase in hand, when he hears Ian move from out of the kitchen.

“What are you doing?”

Mickey registers the fear in Ian’s voice.

“I’m leaving.”

There’s the thudding of feet, and Ian is on him again. Mickey tenses for a fight, but Ian is grasping at him now, crying and begging.

“No no no no no no no. Don’t go. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please don’t go. Please.”

Mickey works to disentangle himself while Ian continues to beg.

“Ian, let me go.”

Ian hangs on tighter. He feels hot on Mickey’s skin. Mickey is struggling to breathe. With a great shove, Ian stumbles back, and Mickey is able to fling open the door and run out.

The sound of Ian begging and crying will ring in his ears for the rest of the night.

* * *

 

Ian had the wherewithal to call her.

It is a miracle in and of itself because by the time she arrives he is huddled on the living room floor, staring off into the distance. She rushes and kneels beside him; brushes his hair from his forehead. He startles and then looks at her. He whispers.

“He left me.”

He sobs then. Big great sobs that shake his whole body. She sits fully on the floor so that she can cradle his head in her lap, shushing and caressing him. After a while, when he is calm enough, she stands him up and leads him back to the bedroom, placing him carefully under the blankets. He continues to whimper before grabbing what she assumes is Mickey’s pillow and burying his face in it. He falls asleep which allows her the ability to take in the effects of their chaos. The bedroom door is busted. A piece of the doorframe hangs from the lock while smaller pieces of wood decorate the floor. The living room is not as badly damaged. An overturned coffee table and the remnants of a fire make up the scene. The kitchen is the worse by far. It seems that every dish they own lies in shards on the floor. The cutlery is mixed in, spoons and knives and forks adding detail to the tale of violence. She sighs.

There is no way to tell if this mess will ever be cleaned.

* * *

 

Three days go by, and Ian has not left the bed.

Svetlana is worried. Of course, she is. She dutifully gives him his medication which he takes. But he refuses anything else. He sleeps and when he wakes, he asks about whether Mickey has come home. The answer is always a negative one which leads to his crying about his loss. She listens in silence, holding back the “I told you so”. It doesn’t matter. None of this matters.

She knows Ian calls him. She overhears him crying on the phone, leaving messages filled with declarations of love and apologies. There is never a return call. The two of them live in this limbo for what feels close to an eternity.

On the fourth day - soon to be the fifth - she lies on the couch. Her head throbs and she is fatigued. Her muscles ache and she feels as though she will snap if touched by the slightest whisper. Outside a storm brews. Wind builds. The air is heavy. She can hear lightning and thunder in the distance. She waits in the living room with abated breath for the storm to break. She can feel the pressure in her veins. She wants to claw at it. Wants to cry out for it to end. When will this end?

She hears the slap of bare feet on the wood floor. Her body tenses. There’s the clatter of porcelain against silver. She sits up. Bare feet move again and then the slam of a door. She dashes into the hallway, finds the closed door of the bathroom. It’s locked. She pounds on the door, yelling for it to be opened. Thunder rumbles outside. She becomes frantic, clawing at the door as if that will do any good. She throws herself against the door. Again and again and again and again and again.

Again.

It gives way.

Ian lies on the floor. Wrists slit. Blood on the tile.

The storm breaks.

* * *

 

Mickey stands in the middle of his studio to survey the damage.

After he left home, he raced to his studio only to find it ransacked. Ian claimed every photo, every negative. He left nothing behind. Mickey was too in shock to register anything else but that.

Now, in bright sunlight, he begins to pick up the remains. His equipment lies everywhere, some of it in pieces. His camera was spared luckily; he guesses even Ian realized it would be too cruel to destroy that as well. The smell of spilled developing chemicals permeates the air. He has to open all of the windows. After a day of sweeping, and mopping, and holding back tears, he sits on his stool and smokes.

Anger still bubbles within him. Ian destroyed months of work in retaliation for an imagined affair. He wracks his brain for something he might have done, might have said that would ever give Ian that idea. But there is nothing.

_Nothing._

He puts out his cigarette, locking the door behind him as he leaves. He reminds himself to call a locksmith in the morning. He needs to change the locks on the front door; add one to the studio door.

He trudges to Mandy’s apartment, where he has been staying. She was devastated to hear what Ian had done, the betrayal cutting deep. She cried with him when he described all of his work being swallowed by flames, when he detailed the altercation that followed. Iggy came over the next day to lend his support. He has never been much of a conversationalist so the Milkovich siblings spent the night drinking instead. That night was the first night in seven years that they all slept under the same roof.

It was bittersweet.

When he arrives, Mandy is making dinner, and they eat in relative silence in front of the television. He doesn’t have the strength or desire for conversation, and Mandy seems to understand this. She bids him goodnight while he makes up the couch. Before he falls asleep, he reviews his missed calls and notes the number of voicemails left on his phone. They are all from Ian.

He deletes every last one.

 

At a quarter to one in the morning, he is jolted awake by the shrill ring of his phone. He clumsily reaches for it. He croaks.

“Hello?”

“Mickey, it’s Svetlana. You need to come to Weiss now.”

Mickey is confused.

“The hospital?”

“Yes. Come immediately.”

Mickey bolts upright.

“What happened?”

“Ian attempted suicide. Come to the ER now.”

Mickey has never run through so many red lights in his life.

* * *

 

He finds Svetlana in the ER waiting room.

He rushes to her, startling her in the process.

“What happened?”

She looks up.

“He slit his wrists in the bathroom.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Mickey sinks into a chair, running his hands over his face and through his hair.

“How is he? What are they saying?”

She shakes her head.

“Nothing yet.”

Mickey stands up and storms up to the nurse’s station.

“I need to know what’s going on with my husband. His name is Ian Gallagher and he came in almost an hour ago.”

The nurse stares at him for a second before responding.

“A doctor will be out to speak with you shortly once they know more.”

Mickey does his best to not punch the Plexiglas.

“Bullshit. I need to know what’s going on now.”

“Sir, please remain patient –"

“Fuck you. Let me talk to your supervisor.”

“Sir…”

Just as Mickey is about to further escalate the situation, he hears his name. He turns to find the Gallagher clan staring at him. Lip approaches quickly.

“What’s going on?”

Mickey shakes his head.

“I don’t know. No one is fucking telling me anything.”

As he finishes that sentence, a doctor calls out for Ian Gallagher’s family. Mickey rushes over, the Gallaghers practically stepping on his heels. Svetlana stands a few steps away. Mickey responds.

“I’m his husband. How is he?”

The doctor reviews the chart.

“Your husband was brought into the ER at 12:21am with lacerations to both his left and right wrists. He suffered blood loss and was provided with a transfusion. His wrists have been sutured and he is currently receiving IV fluids. He is stable.”

A sigh of relief resonates from the entire family.

“When can I see him?”

“Shortly, but first, I would like to speak with you regarding your husband. We are treating this as a suicide attempt, and as such, we will need to admit him to a psychiatric unit on a mandatory 72 hour hold. Does your husband have a history of mental illness?”

Mickey nods.

“He has Bipolar Disorder. He receives treatment for it though.”

“Have you noticed any depressive symptoms? Loss of appetite? Fatigue? Loss of interest in activities that he once enjoyed?”

Mickey becomes flustered.

“I…I don’t know. I haven’t…I didn’t notice…”

“Has he been medication compliant?”

“I think so. I mean…I see him take them.”

“Where does your husband receive psychiatric services? We would like to notify his psychiatrist once we are able to secure Mr. Gallagher a bed in a psychiatric unit.”

All eyes are on him. But he doesn’t know. He has no idea. Lip speaks.

“His psychiatrist is Dr. Samuel Mason. He’s affiliated with Illinois Masonic.”

The doctor nods.

“Do you have his contact information? If that’s where Mr. Gallagher receives treatment, it will be easier to secure a bed there.”

Lip nods.

“I can give it to you now.”

He begins to rattle off Dr. Mason’s contact information. Mickey turns to look at Svetlana. She stares at him. The doctor speaks again.

“A nurse will come and get you when you’re able to see him. It should be in about twenty minutes.” They all mumble their gratitude before sitting down. Mickey rubs his face and then leans his head back. Lip speaks.

“How did this happen?”

Mickey shakes his head.

“I don’t know.”

Lip replies in an accusatory tone.

“Yeah, it appears you don’t know a lot of things. How about telling us what you do know? Like where the fuck were you while this was happening?”

Mickey closes his eyes.

“I was staying with my sister.”

“While he was feeling depressed? You left him alone while he was depressed?”

“Please, let’s not go into this right now.”

“Like fuck we’re not going to –"

Fiona interrupts Lip.

“Stop. We’ll talk about this later. Let’s just focus on getting Ian back on track.”

Everyone falls silent.

Mickey’s mind whirs.

* * *

 

Only one person is allowed back to see Ian.

Although Lip fights him on this, Mickey is the one to go. He follows the nurse to Ian’s room, heart monitoring beeping and the noise of hospital staff in the background. Ian is propped up on the bed, sleeping. Mickey is hesitant to approach him. He looks so fragile, with his pale skin and bandaged wrists. He walks up to the bed and tentatively reaches for Ian’s hand. Ian opens his eyes then.

“Mickey?”

Mickey nods his head.

“I knew you’d come back.”

Ian grabs onto his hand. Mickey swallows. Breathes deep.

“They’re putting you on a 72 hour hold. They’re waiting for a bed so they can transfer you to a psych unit.”

Ian nods. He seems eerily calm.

“Okay.”

Mickey stares at him wordlessly for a bit before loosening his grip on Ian’s hand; Ian tightens his.

“Stay here. Don’t leave me.”

Mickey shakes his head.

“I’m not. Your family and Svetlana are in the waiting room. I’m just going to tell them that you’re okay. I’ll be right back.”

Ian agrees but urges him to hurry back. Mickey hides his trembling hands in his pockets when he tells the Gallaghers that Ian is up and understands he’s being admitted. They agree to go home for the night except for Lip who insists on staying. Before she leaves, Svetlana pulls him aside.

“You and I have much to discuss.”

Mickey doesn’t reply, just watches as she turns and walks out. He turns back to find Lip glaring at him.

He averts his eyes.

 

A few hours later, Ian is transferred to Illinois Masonic. Mickey and Lip both follow in their respective cars and wait with him during the admitting process. Ian clings to him before he’s led behind the locked doors, whispering “I love you” over and over again.

Once he’s gone, Mickey runs out of the hospital and throws up in the bushes across the street.

* * *

 

Mickey goes home.

And it looks worse then he remembers. All of their dishes are smashed on the floor along with a serving bowl that belonged to Mickey’s mother. He follows the trail of destruction down the hall, stopping when he looks into the bathroom. Ian’s blood stains the tile. Mickey rushes into the hallway closet, pulling out the mop and bucket. He quickly fills the bucket with Pine-Sol and bleach and gets to work.

He cleans the entire apartment, mopping and vacuuming and sweeping away the past five days. When he’s done, he gets into the shower. He stands under the spray with his head down and his eyes closed. After barely five minutes, the shower curtain is ripped open, making him jump. Svetlana glares at him from the other side.

“What the fuck?”

“I told you we needed to talk.”

“Svet –"

“Now.”

She grabs the towel off of the rack and throws it at him, watching as he turns off the water and wraps the towel around himself.

“How the hell did you get in?”

She lifts her right hand, showing off the keys hanging from one of her fingers. Mickey steps out of the shower and leaves the bathroom with Svetlana following close behind.

“You left him.”

He walks into the bedroom and starts to rifle through their drawers, pulling out underwear and putting it on underneath the towel. He lets the towel drop to the floor before he goes to the closet.

“I won’t be ignored, Mickey.”

He turns around.

“I know I left him. Did he bother to tell you why?”

“That part doesn’t interest me.”

He scoffs.

“He threw my work into the fire. Months and months of work _gone_ , Svetlana. All because he had this fucked up notion that I was having an affair.”

Svetlana clenches her jaw.

“Were you?”

Mickey’s vehement.

“No. And you know that.”

Mickey steps closer to her, hatred spewing forth from his pores.

“You knew he was having this thought, didn’t you?”

“I told you he was sick.”

“But you didn’t tell me how sick.”

He rubs his hands through his hair, turning his back on her for a moment before turning around to glare at her. He yells.

“I didn’t know, Svetlana. I didn’t know it could be this bad.”

She yells back.

“What did you think, Mickey, when he said he had Bipolar Disorder? Did you not ask questions? Did you not research? You knew he attempted once before. Why are you so surprised?”

“He told me that when he took his medication he was fine; that the medication made him better. And he took it. I saw him take it. And he was _fine_.”

Mickey’s voice breaks. Tears well in his eyes.

“How does this happen? How does he go from being okay one day and to this the next? Tell me how.”

“He was sick, Mickey. He had been for a while. You just didn’t know what to look for.”

Mickey starts to cry.

“So what? Is this my fault? Was Henry’s suicide _your_ fault?”

Her gaze is steel.

“Yes.”

She leaves him there to cry.

* * *

 

Mickey visits Ian at the hospital.

Ian is drowsy from the sedative they’ve given him so they barely say five words to each other before Mickey leaves to let Ian rest. On his way out, he asks to speak with Ian’s psychiatrist. He’s told that Dr. Mason is already meeting with Ian’s brother Philip. He’s led to the doctor’s office.

Lip glares at him when he walks in and introduces himself as Ian’s husband. Dr. Mason reviews what he’s already explained to Lip about medication adjustments. Mickey follows the best he can and simply agrees when the doctor states that Ian will be admitted for a week.

He and Lip remain silent throughout the process of leaving the hospital. Mickey walks across the street to smoke, ignoring Lip as he follows him. Mickey has barely taken a second puff when Lip speaks.

“Ian says you were having an affair.”

Mickey wants to laugh. He wants to bend over with laughter because of course. Of fucking course. He scoffs instead.

“If he thought it, it must be so. Isn’t that what you told me? Irrefutable truth, right?”

“Right.”

Mickey swallows.

“I left him because he destroyed my work.”

Lip remains silent. Mickey inhales from his cigarette. Lets it slowly seep out through his nose.

“He did this to punish me, didn’t he?”

In his peripheral vision, he sees Lip nod.

“Yeah. He probably did.”

Lip claps him on the shoulder before he leaves.

 

When Mickey gets home, he turns on his laptop.

And searches “Bipolar Disorder”.

* * *

 

Ian is discharged from the hospital on a Tuesday.

Mickey reviews the discharge paperwork and treatment plan with the nurse before bringing the car around to meet Ian. On the drive home, Ian rests his hand on Mickey’s thigh.

Fiona and Debbie are standing outside their apartment with groceries when they arrive. As they’re walking into their building, Mandy comes running up holding take out from Dib.

While Fiona puts away groceries, Mickey hands out their new plates so that everyone can start serving themselves. They talk about the mundane until Mickey notices that Ian’s eyes are drooping. He looks at Fiona who quickly stands up and starts ushering everyone out. Tight hugs and promises to check in are given before Mickey and Ian are alone.

Ian walks to the bedroom while Mickey washes the dishes. When he’s done, he dawdles a bit by straightening up and then going to the bathroom. By the time he makes it to the bedroom, it’s time for Ian’s night dosages. Ian takes them willingly and settles down into bed. He watches as Mickey changes.

Mickey sits on the bed and for a brief moment contemplates sleeping on the couch. He feels Ian’s hand grasp his arm and gently pull him back. He lies down, and Ian immediately clings to him, laying his head on Mickey’s chest and wrapping an arm around his waist. Mickey slowly weaves an arm around Ian’s back. Ian snuggles closer and takes a deep breath. He whispers.

“I forgive you.”

Mickey holds back a scream.


	5. Chapter 5

She lights another cigarette.

She hasn’t smoked this much in years, but reliving this period in her life – describing their lives – is stressful. She has been unwilling to speak about them since Mickey’s passing, but now that she knows her future, she felt it was time.

She’s read the biographies. Those thoroughly researched and carefully crafted retellings. She’s read the critiques of Ian’s work and the reviews of Mickey’s photographs. She even watched the documentary.

But now there is talk of a film. And she knows they’ll get it wrong. Because when it comes down to it, Mickey and Ian were so much more than what these people have come to believe.

She takes a sip of water. Stubs out her cigarette.

They want to know where the blame lies.

But truth is, there was enough of that to go around.

* * *

 

Medication adjustments are devastating.

Ian’s not handling the increases well, too many complaints about nausea and dizziness. He mostly sleeps those first few days, scaring Mickey so much that he calls Dr. Mason several times to have his fears allayed. Depression is not setting in. He’ll see them in two weeks time.

Mickey doesn’t sleep. He’s too worried that Ian will try something again. Will push the knife in deeper just to hurt them both.

He lies in bed at night, listening to Ian’s breaths. Ian wraps himself around Mickey, trapping him in. It’s stifling at times, but Mickey supposes that he’ll just have to live like this from now on. Live with making sure Ian eats. Live with counting out his pills every morning and every night. Live with the dread of wondering what kind of day it will be, what kind of mood Ian will be in.

Mickey watches Ian closely now. Notes any changes in his demeanor, in the way he tilts his head, the way he flicks his eyes. Any movement can indicate the voices are back. Can denote the possibility of uncontrollable weeping or the blaming of Mickey for something he has not done.

They check in with Dr. Mason every two weeks for six months. Medicating someone isn’t an exact science so they have to fiddle with it, increasing one, decreasing another. Swap one medication for another. So many pills. So many dosages. So many side effects that can wreak havoc on Ian’s body. By the time everything is settled, Mickey is on the verge of cracking himself.

He lives off of coffee and cigarettes. Sleeps for four hours a night if he’s lucky. Loses twenty pounds.

And Ian clings to him harder.

Clings to him and won’t let him go.

* * *

 

They go to the Gallaghers’ house.

Fiona’s having a barbeque; the whole family will be there. Ian’s excited. He hasn’t seen his family in months, not since after his discharge from the hospital. They haven’t stopped by, have barely called.

Svetlana says this has happened before. The family tends to close in on itself when Ian gets sick. They did the same thing with their mother. It’s the only way they know how to survive.

Ian is in the backyard talking with his brothers while Mickey stands in the kitchen drinking a beer and letting himself breathe for a minute. Fiona walks in, stopping short when she sees him standing by the sink.

“What are you doing in here?”

“Breathing.”

He takes a drink, finishing off his beer. He throws it away and grabs another. She walks to the fridge. Pulls out tomatoes and onions. Rifles through a drawer and pulls out a knife. She speaks.

“He seems a lot better.”

Mickey nods.

“Yeah.”

“That’s a relief, huh?”

Mickey nods again but doesn’t respond otherwise. Fiona pulls out a cutting board. She turns her back to him to start slicing.

“You look tired.”

“Because I am.”

She doesn’t respond. He listens to the sound of the knife hitting the cutting board. Thunk. Thunk. He breaks through it.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

Fiona freezes. He continues.

“I’ve spent the past seven months taking care of a man who destroyed months of my work in retaliation for one of his delusions.”

She turns to look at him.

“You know what he said the night he came home? That he forgives me. Forgives me. For a _fucking_ delusion. So now I carry the cross of an affair that never happened. And he gets to play the martyr. I haven’t slept properly in months. My clothes hang on me. I smoke a pack and a half a day. I’m twenty-eight years old, and I’m getting grey hair. And the worst part is I’m starting to resent him. And I don’t want to.”

He doesn’t realize he’s been crying until after he’s done speaking. Fiona looks terrified.

“You can’t leave him.”

He laughs then. A watery laugh. Sniffs.

“He wouldn’t survive it.”

He clears his throat.

“I know. So either he’ll kill himself, or he’ll kill me. Maybe I’ll get lucky and he’ll kill us both at the same time.”

She puts down the knife.

“Listen, I know it’s been hard…”

“No, you don’t know. You don’t know. Because none of you have been there. And I get that I’m his husband, and this is essentially my job, but I had no fucking clue what I was dealing with. I mean, I’m walking blind here. And I can’t do it anymore.”

Fiona puts out her hands in a placating gesture.

“Mickey –"

“I’m exhausted, Fiona. I’m so fucking tired. And it doesn’t stop. He doesn’t stop. He’ll _never stop_.”

He wipes his face with a shaking hand. He doesn’t know what to do anymore. He feels ready to crack in half.

“Let me fix this.”

He chuckles.

“You can’t.”

“I’ll think of something. Just…don’t make any definite decisions until I figure something out. Okay? Just… _please_.”

Before Mickey can respond, they hear footsteps on the stairs.

“Hey, the food’s ready.”

It’s Ian. He’s happy. Mickey can hear it in his voice. Fiona smiles.

“Awesome.”

She picks up the cutting board and carries it outside. Mickey feels Ian approach him. He wraps his arms around Mickey’s shoulders, pulling him back a bit to press against his chest. He kisses his neck.

“Everything okay?”

When Mickey doesn’t respond right away, he feels Ian tense up. Mickey nods slowly, not wanting a scene. Not right now. He couldn’t handle it. He feels Ian smile against his neck.

“Come on. Let’s eat.”

Mickey nods again.

* * *

 

Fiona plans a trip.

She and Lip were able to secure a lake house in Traverse City during the National Cherry Festival. She insists on it just being the Gallagher siblings. She says that she wants them to be together like they used to. She won’t make any exceptions. It takes Mickey, Fiona, _and_ Lip to talk Ian into going. He’s hesitant about leaving home, about leaving Mickey. The night before they’re set to leave, he finally decides to go. In the morning, Mickey helps him pack.

“I still don’t understand why you can’t go.”

Mickey shrugs.

“I think your sister just misses all of you being together. I mean, everyone’s so wrapped up in their lives that you guys haven’t been able to just be a family.”

“You’re our family too.”

Mickey places his hands on Ian’s shoulders.

“Just do this for her, okay? Have fun with them.”

Ian nods.

“I’m going to have Svetlana check in on you. Make sure you’re taking care of yourself.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. Ian smiles.

“It’ll make me feel better.”

“All right. Fine.”

Ian laughs and then kisses him.

“Make sure you call me every night.”

Mickey nods his head.

“I promise.”

When Ian closes the door behind him, Mickey breathes a sigh of relief.

* * *

 

They take two cars.

Ian rides with Fiona and Debbie. They talk about nothing in particular. It’s just aimless sibling talk, and he loves it. He was expecting them to grill him about his mental health, but everyone seems to be avoiding that particular topic. He couldn’t be happier about that.

They make a brief stop in St. Joe to grab lunch and then continue on to Traverse City. It’s crowded. They crawl through traffic but even that doesn’t bother him. Waiting in traffic is normal. He’s being normal.

By the time they arrive to their destination, they’re all tired. Fiona pops in a couple of frozen pizzas she brought along, and they eat outside on the deck. He lets the chatter of his siblings flow over him. He’s happy.

* * *

 

Ian has to share a room with Lip.

He was hoping to share with Liam, but Carl already placed his bag in that room. Apparently, Lip has been annoying the hell out of him.

He doesn’t go in right away. He sits outside and calls Mickey to check in. They talk briefly about the drive, but Ian keeps the call somewhat short. He can hear the exhaustion in Mickey’s voice, and he wants him to get some sleep. He knows that Mickey hasn’t been sleeping well – not for the past few months – and he knows he’s to blame. They’ve been focused on getting him stable on his medication, and Mickey has been wonderful about the whole thing.

But he’s not taking care of himself.

Ian sees that Mickey lost a lot of weight. That he’s smoking a lot more. That he’s worn thin.

They don’t talk much anymore. When they do, it’s about Ian’s medication or psychiatric appointments. Mickey doesn’t even look at him in the same way. He’s distant and there’s no spark of love there. Only wariness.

To make matters worse, they haven’t had sex in over seven months. Ian’s libido returned six weeks ago, but Mickey barely touches him. So Ian clings to him at night, craving that affection, hoping that Mickey will cling to him as well. But he hasn’t.

And it hurts.

He’s hoping these next few days apart will allow Mickey time to rest. Let him get back to himself so that they can get back to each other. It’s time.

Once they hang up, Ian returns to his room to find Lip already in bed messing with his phone. He goes to the bureau and opens the pillbox Mickey so carefully filled to take his nightly medication. He takes them and gets into bed, settling down with his back towards Lip. He hears Lip inhale.

“Was that Mickey?”

“Yeah.”

“How’s he doing?”

Ian turns to look at his brother.

“He sounds tired. This whole thing has been really draining.”

Lip nods.

“I bet.”

“I think once he gets some rest, he’ll be better. Now that I’ve got the right medication, everything will get back to normal.”

Lip hums.

“What?”

Lip shakes his head.

“Nothing.”

It’s not nothing though. Ian can hear it.

But he’s too drowsy to dissect it just yet.

* * *

 

They spend the day at the festival.

The weather is beautiful, and he eats way too much cherry pie. Ian finds himself alone with Fiona, wandering the aisles of vendors. She puts her hand on his shoulder.

“So how are you feeling?”

He nods.

“Okay. Better. We were able to get the medication stuff straightened out so I’m on the mend.”

She smiles.

“I’m so glad. We were all really worried.”

“I know.”

They walk in silence until Fiona clears her throat.

“How’s Mickey?”

Ian shoots a sideways glance before shrugging.

“He’s tired. Which is normal. The past few months have been horrendous, but now that I’m better, he’ll be okay.”

Her tone is hesitant.

“Yeah, it’s just…I noticed he lost a lot of weight. He doesn’t look too good.”

“Like I said, he’s tired.”

He chuckles.

“He can’t cook to save his life so we’ve mostly been living off of whatever he’s able to scrounge up. I mean, he’s pretty much helpless without me, Fi. But don’t worry; now that I’m feeling like myself again, I’ll fatten him up.”

She nods.

“But…how is he doing…you know, emotionally?”

Ian stops short, catching Fiona off guard. He turns to look at her, taking in her nervousness, her wide eyes.

“What are you getting at?”

Fiona shakes her head.

“Nothing. It’s just that…this is a lot to deal with for even the most seasoned veteran, you know? And Mickey’s so new to this whole thing…”

“He’s strong. He’s the strongest person I know. He can handle it.”

“No, I know, but it’s rough. The mood swings and delusions.”

He glares at her.

“What delusions?”

Fiona opens her mouth but doesn’t speak. He steps a bit closer to her.

“What delusions, Fiona?”

She speaks softly so as not to frighten him off.

“Lip says that you think Mickey had an affair.”

Ian clenches his jaw.

“Lip needs to keep his fucking mouth shut.”

He turns away from her. Runs a hand through his hair. He whips back around to look at her. She takes a step back.

“Lip has no right to talk to you about my marriage. I told him that in confidence.”

“He says –"

“What? What does the great and powerful Lip have to say? That I made it up? That I’m lying?”

He can feel his blood pressure rise. Feels the flush of his face.

“He says it’s not true. That it’s just a delusion.”

Ian feels tears start to well. He bites down on his lip to steady himself.

“Ian, you were sick. No one blames you for anything you did while you were sick.”

He steps towards her. They’re almost nose to nose.

“Mickey had an affair. And I forgave him. It’s done. And don’t you ever mention it to me again.”

He walks away from her.

Doesn’t look back.

* * *

 

Ian’s smoking on the deck.

He’s gone through half a pack by the time the rest of the Gallaghers come back to the house. He hears the door open behind him, the brief chatter of the younger siblings, before the door closes. Lip stands next to him with his hands in his pockets.

“Fiona says you’re pissed.”

Ian glares out at the lake.

“You fucking told her about Mickey’s affair.”

Lip sighs.

“He didn’t have an affair, Ian.”

He throws the cigarette off the deck. Turns to stare his brother down. Lip looks calm. It pisses Ian off.

“What the fuck would you know about it?”

Lip speaks softly.

“I know the affair wasn’t real.”

Ian shakes his head.

“Fuck you.”

He storms to the door, throwing it open so that it bounces on its hinges. Debbie looks up from where she’s setting the table. Carl and Liam look over the couch as Fiona walks out of the kitchen. Lip calls after him.

“Ian, wait.”

Ian goes to his shared room and begins packing his bag, shoving everything in as quickly as he can. Lip stops at the door, hands out in a pacifying gesture.

“Ian, hold on.”

He ignores him. Continues to pack. He turns to the bureau to grab his medication when Fiona walks in.

“What’s going on?”

Ian spits out.

“I’m leaving.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I’m going home.”

“Ian…”

He looks up, chin jutting out.

“Fuck all of you. Making me feel like I’m crazy. Like I do shit just to hurt people. Like I would intentionally hurt my husband.”

Lip speaks up.

“You set his work on fire because you deluded yourself into thinking he was having an affair.”

Ian yells.

“He was. And I did it…”

He falters here, trying to remember why he did it. Why did he do it?

“You did it because you were sick.”

Ian shakes his head.

“No. I did it to keep him. None of you understand how hard it is to keep someone. None of you know how special Mickey is, how important he is to me. None of you have the guts to do what I’ve had to do.”

He zips up his bag and pushes past Fiona and Lip. She grabs his arm.

“Wait, where are you going? You can’t leave.”

He wrenches his arm out of her grasp.

“I called Mickey. He’s coming to pick me up.”

“No. Let’s…let’s just talk about this, okay? We’ll talk.”

He stalks to the front door, but Fiona beats him there, putting herself between him and the world.

“No. I’m not letting you leave like this.”

Ian puts down his bag, and just as he’s about to grab Fiona’s arm, Lip stops him. There’s a brief struggle before Ian pushes Lip hard enough to make him stumble back. Fiona moves from the door quickly, tears sliding down her face.

“Ian, please don’t do this.”

He pokes her in the chest with his finger.

“Stay the fuck out my life. I’m done with all of you.”

This rift will last until the moment it’s too late.


	6. Chapter 6

She takes another break.

They offer her lunch, but she refuses. Her appetite has waned considerably in the past few months. Instead, she drinks a cup of tea and sits outside. The wind has picked up a bit; a chill is coming. She pulls her shawl tighter around her shoulders and stares at the city before her.

She always loved Chicago. She has lived in many cities, becoming a bit of a wanderer after their deaths, but she has come back here time and time again. For better or worse, this is her home.

She hears footsteps behind her and turns to find one of the crew members. They are ready when she is. She follows the girl, returning to her armchair, rearranging her limbs in a graceful manner. They wait until she nods her head before they ask for more.

And there is more.

Too much more.

* * *

 

Mickey is sleeping when he gets the call.

Ian wants to be picked up. In Michigan. He won’t say why. Just begs Mickey to come and get him.

Mickey lies in bed for a few minutes staring at the ceiling. He was supposed to have a few days. He was supposed to be able to sleep, to not worry. He didn’t even get two days.

He screams. He pounds his fists on the bed and kicks his legs. His vision blurs. He bites his lip and chokes back the sobs that threaten to erupt.

He feels old. This life makes him feel old.

He moves slowly, tired and weak from the constant struggle to support the burden of two lives. He showers. Dresses. Grabs his keys.

He follows the speed limit. Radio off. Hands at ten and two.

His stomach knots tighter and tighter the closer he gets to where Ian is. He doesn’t know what he’s going to find or how it’s going to impact him.

He pulls up to a Burger King and sees Ian standing outside, his bag at his feet. He looks angry and on the verge of tears. Once he notices Mickey, he trudges to the car, opening the door and throwing his bag in the backseat. He doesn’t say anything, just buckles his seatbelt and stares out the window. Mickey starts to drive. After half an hour, Ian whispers.

“I’m sorry you had to come all the way out here.”

Mickey doesn’t respond. A few minutes later, Ian speaks again.

“Do you think we could find a hotel or something? Spend the night? I’m tired.”

Mickey nods.

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

They find the nearest hotel and book a room. Still nothing is said between them. While Ian takes a shower, Mickey takes off his shoes, socks, and jeans. Lies down in bed. Just as he’s finally settled, Ian walks out of the bathroom, naked and slightly damp. He turns off the lights and climbs into bed immediately reaching for Mickey. His head rests on Mickey’s chest and an arm wraps around his waist. He inhales deeply before breaking the silence.

“I’m never speaking to my family again.”

Mickey gets three hours of sleep.

* * *

 

He awakes to a hand in his boxers.

Ian lies to the side of him, nuzzling his neck, placing open mouthed kisses there. He continues to stroke him, and naturally, Mickey’s body responds.

But Mickey himself doesn’t.

He doesn’t want this. Isn’t interested in it.

He moves to take Ian’s hand off of him, but Ian persists, stroking faster and gripping harder. Mickey grabs his wrist, squeezing hard to stop Ian’s movements. Ian stares at him, a mixture of embarrassment and anger in his eyes. He removes his hand and pushes himself off the bed, walking into the bathroom and slamming the door.

Mickey lies on the bed and rubs his face.

On the drive back home, they don’t speak.

* * *

 

Fiona calls Mickey later that night.

She asks if Ian’s okay, if he’s calmed down. Mickey ignores her questions.

“What happened?”

“We argued. Well, he argued. We tried to reason with him.”

Mickey snorts.

“Yeah, good luck with that.”

“How is he, though?”

“Angry. Says he’s never talking to any of you ever again.”

Fiona curses under her breath.

“We were trying to help.”

“With what?”

“The affair. Lip and I tried telling him it didn’t really happen. That it’s a delusion.”

“Why? You didn’t help me any. You just made everything worse.”

“I’m sorry.”

They both go quiet. Finally, Fiona speaks.

“Will you talk to him?”

“Not now. Give it some time.”

Fiona apologizes again, but Mickey hangs up. Apologies don’t do him any good.

He walks into their bedroom and finds Ian sitting on the bed already wearing his pajamas. Their nightly routine begins. Mickey doles out Ian’s medication and watches as Ian takes them. He then moves towards the bureau.

“Who were you talking to?”

Mickey takes off his watch.

“Your sister.”

“Why?”

Ian’s tone is one of anger.

“She wanted to know how you were doing. Wanted to see if you were ready to speak with them.”

“I told you I’m never speaking to them again.”

Mickey sighs.

“I know, but you can’t blame her for trying. Wouldn’t you if the roles were reversed?”

Ian remains silent. Mickey takes off his pants, drapes them over the chair in the corner of their room. Ian whispers.

“You can’t ever leave me.”

Mickey freezes. He looks into their full length mirror. Makes eye contact with Ian through it.

“You’re the only thing worth having in my life.”

Mickey looks at his own reflection and asks a pressing question.

“Where would I go?”

Ian smiles.

Mickey takes off his wedding ring.

* * *

 

They’re invited to a dinner party.

Word has spread quickly that Ian’s on the mend and that it is now safe for them to be invited to social functions although Mickey suspects the invitation has more to do with curiosity than the enjoyment of their company. Artists tend to romanticize suicide and mental illness, wearing both as a badge of honor, as though their talent and creativity are in direct correlation with their mental health. It also does not help that artists are a gossipy bunch despite claims to the contrary. They more than likely want to judge for themselves the scope of Ian’s illness, probably already imagining him as Ophelia floating among the water and weeds.

Mickey wants nothing more than to reject the invitation, to rebuke their stares and assessments. But Ian is anxious to attend.

It has been forever and a day since they attended such events, he says.

It is important that they return to their normal lives, he says.

They need to become themselves, he says, and Mickey does not have the strength to argue. He agrees and closes his eyes to Ian’s satisfied smile.

They are greeted warmly by Felicia the hostess, a friend of a friend who fancies herself the Gertrude Stein of Chicago. After a relatively uneventful dinner, Mickey finds himself standing on the balcony which overlooks Lake Michigan. He’s on his second cigarette when he hears the door behind him open and close. He tenses.

“You can relax. It’s only me.”

He turns to see Amy who is lighting a cigarette of her own. She moves to stand next to him.

“You look like shit.”

Mickey exhales, smoke wafting into the still air.

“Thanks.”

They smoke in silence for a bit. Amy taps her ash over the side of the balcony.

“Remember the instructor I was telling you about? The one who went on maternity leave? Well, she’s decided not to return. A waste of talent in my opinion although she did not appreciate my saying so. Anyway, this is good news for you.”

When Mickey doesn’t respond, she continues.

“I want you to take her place.”

He gives her an incredulous look.

“I don’t even have a Master’s degree.”

“No, but you have had exhibitions. Sold a few pieces. Not to mention that I don’t abhor your work.”

Mickey remains silent. She throws her cigarette down; crushes it with her shoe.

“Think about it. Let me know by the end of the week.”

Amy goes to the door and has her hand on the door handle before turning around. His back remains towards her.

“This will get you out of that house which judging by the look of you, you desperately need. I imagine it isn’t easy, caring for someone who has lost his mind.”

Mickey throws his cigarette over the railing.

* * *

 

They walk quietly into their apartment, not bothering to even turn on the lights.

Ian heads directly into the bedroom already removing his jacket. He unbuttons his shirt as Mickey enters the room.

“I was speaking with Natalie. Do you remember Natalie? Greta’s ex-girlfriend?”

“Vaguely.”

Ian takes off his shirt and sits on the bed to take off his shoes. Mickey works on his own shirt.

“She said that she has a showing next week. Invited us to attend. I told her I’d talk to you about it. What do you think?”

Mickey nods distractedly. He focuses on unclasping his watch, on slipping out of his shoes. Ian continues to fill the air with chatter.

“Svetlana told me that Joe ended things with Amy. Something about her being too chaotic. I saw you talking to her. Did she mention it?”

Mickey shakes his head.

“Didn’t come up.”

“So then what were you talking about?”

Mickey shrugs.

“She offered me a job. One of the instructors left. She wants me to take over.”

Ian slides under the blankets on his side of the bed. Mickey walks over and hands him his pills. Ian takes them without even looking. After he drinks a glass of water, he continues.

“Do you want to? Take the job?”

“I don’t know.”

Mickey lies down, his back towards Ian.

“For what it’s worth, I think you would be good at it.”

Mickey leans over. Turns off the light.

* * *

 

Svetlana comes over.

Uninvited, of course, but she’s there all the same. She walks past Mickey once he opens the door, not even bothering to glance in his direction. She finds Ian in the living room reading on the couch. She sits next to him, fitting her legs under herself. Ian smiles at her. Just as Mickey walks into the room, she addresses Ian.

“Send your husband away for a few hours. I think you and I need some time to ourselves.”

Ian turns to look behind him before suggesting just that. Mickey agrees. Before he leaves, he mouths “thank you” to her. She doesn’t acknowledge his gratitude. Ian puts his book to the side. Cocks his head to look at her.

“And to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I heard Amy offered Mickey Tamara’s old position. Does he plan on accepting it?”

“He has some time to decide.”

“What has he said about it?”

Ian shrugs. Svetlana narrows her eyes.

“Has he spoken with you about it?”

Ian looks down. Scratches his neck. She clenches her jaw.

“What?”

He looks off to the side.

“He doesn’t talk to me about anything.”

“And why is that?”

Ian shrugs again.

“Tell me.”

He takes a deep breath.

“I did what I had to do. And I forgave him. He should forgive me.”

Svetlana sniffs.

“You know what you need to do?”

Ian shakes his head. Svetlana leans in.

“Confront him.”

* * *

 

Mickey arrives home to the smell of cooking.

He walks into the kitchen and sees Ian plating something Mickey cannot identify.

“Where’s Svetlana?”

Ian looks at him. Smiles.

“She left a bit ago.”

Mickey stares at Ian for a bit before nodding. Ian continues.

“It’s been awhile since we had a proper dinner so I’m afraid that I went a bit overboard.”

“I’m not really hungry. I just want to lie down for a little while.”

He turns to walk out of the kitchen so he doesn’t see when Ian picks up one of the plates and throws it at the wall. All he hears is the shattering of ceramic. He jumps and spins around to see Ian throw the other plate. Mickey stands, simply staring at the mess before him, his only thought being _W_ _onderful. Something else for me to clean_.

“Look at me.”

Mickey looks at Ian.

“Look at me.”

“I am.”

Ian yells.

“Look at me.”

“What do you want, Ian?”

Even to his own ears, Mickey sounds defeated.

“I want you to look at me like you did. I want you to look at me like you love me.”

Mickey just shakes his head and sighs. He starts to turn his back towards his husband, but Ian grabs him by a shoulder and spins him around.

“No. No, you and I are going to have this out. Right now.”

“What do you want? Hmm? What do you want from me now?”

“I want you to be here.”

“I am here.”

“No. No, you’re not. You’re off somewhere else. Somewhere I can’t reach you. I want you to be present. Be _here_.”

Mickey tries to walk away, but Ian holds on fast. There’s a slight struggle before Mickey pushes Ian away completely. He feels the dam busting. He screams. Truly and unabashedly screams. Ian steps back, completely caught off guard. A second later, Mickey’s screams are directed towards his husband.

“What? What am I not giving you? What ounce of attention do you not have? I take care of everything. I take care of this house and our bills. And you. God knows I take care of you. So tell me, how are you being neglected? What more can I fucking do?”

Ian tries to reach for him.

“Mickey…”

“I’m tired, Ian. I am _so_ fucking tired. And…”

Mickey stops. He stares off into the distance. He chuckles then looks back at Ian.

“I don’t know. I don’t know.”

Ian is lost. He has no idea what is happening and it frightens him. He watches as Mickey walks out of the kitchen and heads towards the front door. He follows him into the hall.

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know.”

Ian watches him leave.

* * *

 

Svetlana opens her door to find Mickey on the other side.

He pushes past her and into the living room. She closes the door and follows him. She watches as he paces back and forth before rolling her eyes and sitting down on the couch, picking up the book she was reading before she was so rudely interrupted. Svetlana makes it through another chapter before Mickey decides to speak.

“I broke.”

She continues to pay more attention to her book than to him. She mutters a distracted response.

“Good.”

“Did you hear me? I said I broke. I screamed and I yelled and essentially just lost it.”

She looks up at him.

“Good.”

“No, you’re not hear –"

“I hear you perfectly fine, Mickey. And I said good.”

Mickey’s confusion is evident.

“I adore Ian. He is only one of two people I have ever considered to be my friends. But he can be deadly if you’re not careful. And you, Mickey, are very careless.”

She stands up and wraps her arm around his shoulders; guides him to the door. She opens it and gently pushes him out.

“Tell him, Mickey. Tell him what he’s done.”

She then slams the door in his face.

* * *

 

Ian is waiting for him when he gets home.

Mickey walks into the living room and Ian looks up at him warily. He speaks to Mickey softly.

“I cleaned up the mess.”

Mickey remains silent. Ian goes on.

“I’m sorry for how I acted. It’s just…you’re not speaking to me…about anything. It makes me feel like I’m losing you.”

“You are.”

Mickey looks so certain when he says this that Ian becomes terrified.

“What?”

“Do you really see me, Ian? Or do you just ignore what is happening?”

“I see you. Of course, I see you.”

“You don’t. Because if you did, then you would have seen how unhappy I’ve been for months now.”

“I know my illness –"

Mickey yells.

“Jesus Christ, it’s not that.”

Ian watches as Mickey paces, as he rubs his hands over his face and through his hair.

“I mean, yes, that is incredibly hard. Devastatingly hard. The medication adjustments and the never ending psychiatric appointments. That was grueling. But that was nothing compared to what came after. Or even before.”

Mickey wants to go into detail. Wants to hurl all of Ian’s offenses into his face. Wants the venom of his words to flow through Ian’s bloodstream straight to his heart. But he makes the mistake of looking at Ian. Of looking at the beautiful man he fell in love with, at the man who is staring at him with frightening devotion in his eyes.

He can’t do it.

He can’t. He shakes his head as he feels the tears well in his eyes. He can’t. He sniffs. _He can’t_.

“Mickey?”

He looks up and Ian is standing in front of him.

“I'm scared.”

Ian brings him close, wraps his arms around him. Mickey buries his face in Ian’s neck and begins to cry. Body trembling sobs. Tears that would bring tears to another’s eyes. His husband holds him all the while. Caressing his hair and placing gentle lips on his temple.

Ian will never know how selfish he was in loving Mickey.

* * *

 

The next day Mickey takes the job.


	7. Chapter 7

She’s tense.

She lights another cigarette to the dismay of the children. She assumes they have never seen anyone smoke so much in such a short expanse of time. She’s already gone through a pack and a half; will surely go through another by the time this godforsaken interview is done.

She inhales.

The children watch her, waiting for her to carry on. She’s not ready yet. She needs a minute to gather her thoughts. Her eyes focus on a spot on the rug. Something miniscule, something insignificant, but there all the same.

If only she had been as observant then as she is now, she thinks.

She may have caught them in time.

* * *

 

Ian is careful.

After watching Mickey disintegrate the way he did, he has to be. No one has been as delicate as Ian has been when it comes to choosing words and facial expressions. He’s so afraid that one ill-phrased sentence or cock of an eyebrow will have Mickey racing to the door.

They barely speak some days, rarely ever touch. Ian watches his husband undress at night before bed and yearns to reach for him. Longs to kiss and lick what he feels rightfully belongs to him. But Mickey doesn’t seem the least bit interested in him and Ian has learned not to push.

For months this is how their marriage putters along. Never growing, never changing. Their first anniversary comes and goes. Ian cooks an elaborate meal. Mickey eats it. There is no exchanging of gifts, or terms of endearment, or love. It’s just another link in a miserable chain.

Mickey throws his focus into work. He’s completely preoccupied with teaching. He’s developing and reviewing lesson plans, consulting with Amy on an almost daily basis. When Ian asks him to take a small break, Mickey snaps a retort of needing to get something right in his life.

Pour lemon and salt in an open wound, asshole, is what Ian thinks.

Fine, is what Ian says.

He’s at a complete loss so he throws himself into his own work. Writing fuels him. No longer composing through the haze of mania with its jumbled words and tangential fragments, he’s able to spin elegant stories from what has happened before and since. He has a reading scheduled at the end of the month. His desire to prove to the others that he still has his genius pushes him to work harder, to not settle for lackluster imagery.

He refuses to be the madman of Edgewater.

Sometimes it becomes too much, though. Sometimes he feels like he cannot breathe. So he writes more. And more. And more. One day, he thinks that he’ll write so much there will be nothing left to write about.

But then Mickey will come home, and they won’t speak, and he knows that this won’t ever be true.

* * *

 

The reading comes.

There’s the usual mingling beforehand, with Ian and Mickey on opposite sides of the room talking about their separate interests. Ian will glance over at his husband to see him laughing. He can’t help but grow resentful. Why does he get to not have a care?

Ian waits outside smoking a cigarette until someone comes to tell him he’s next to read. His introduction comes and he makes his way to the podium before finding Mickey in the crowd.

“I miss the sound of you. The patter of your feet. The moan from a touch. The perfect way you say my name.”

This – them – is what his poems consist of. They’re the writings of lament.

Ian has tears in his eyes while he reads his last line.

“We’re standing on cracking ice, you and I. Both of us watching and waiting to see who will go under first.”

He escapes as soon as the words leave his mouth to the sound of applause. He takes deep breaths and then lights a cigarette with shaking hands. The tears are falling and he won’t make them stop. He feels a familiar strong grasp on his elbow which leads him to the alley around the side of the building. Mickey pushes him away.

“If your goal was to humiliate me, you’ve done a fantastic job.”

“I wasn’t trying to humiliate you; I was trying to reach you.”

“And you thought that was the best way to do that? To air our dirty laundry to a bunch of artists and critics who live on gossip?”

“Fuck you, at least I’m trying.”

“Don’t you da –"

Ian yells.

“I don’t know what else you want me to do.”

Mickey whispers harshly to him.

“Would you keep your voice down? This is why I can’t talk to you. The minute I start speaking about uncomfortable topics you become irrational.”

Ian pushes him. Mickey laughs before rubbing his face with his hands.

“Know what? Do whatever you want. You want to write about what a horrible husband I am? You want to tell the world that we don’t speak let alone have sex? Fine. I’ll play the villain. That’s probably the role you had all picked out for me since the beginning, isn’t it?”

Ian stares at Mickey in dismay.

Mickey laughs again before turning around and walking away.

* * *

 

Amy passes the joint to Mickey.

They’re standing on her balcony, leaning against the rail. The porch light bulb is unscrewed so her neighbors can’t see what they’re doing.

“There are a lot of little kids around. The last thing I need is for one of them to go running to mommy and daddy saying that the scary woman in 202 is smoking funny cigarettes.”

Mickey chuckles. They remain silent for a few minutes just passing the joint back and forth. The air is still and humid. He’s starting to feel sticky.

“That was one hell of a reading, huh?”

He doesn’t respond.

“That husband of yours sure knows how to pack a punch.”

He ignores her.

“Your husband’s an asshole.”

Mickey groans.

“Jesus Christ, Amy.”

“I knew that would get you.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Whatever you need to.”

Mickey sighs.

“It was embarrassing. It’s going to be nothing but whispers and glances now.”

“Hate to break it to you, but it’s always been whispers and glances for you guys. Since the very beginning.”

He rubs his nose and sniffs.

“I don’t know where to go from here.”

There’s a brief pause before Amy speaks.

“I was in love once.”

Mickey furrows his brow and looks at her.

“This man. He was beautiful. Kind. He could be very sweet. Then I found out he was fucking one of my friends. But I think that…if he was to come back and say he was sorry and that he wanted to give it another go…I would murder him.”

They both break out laughing. Once they’ve calmed, she continues.

“What I’m trying to say, rather ineloquently, is that I wouldn’t hate him so much if I didn’t still love him.”

Mickey nods.

“Sometimes you have to weigh them. See which one is heavier.”

He looks into the cloudy, night sky and sniffs the air.

It smells like rain.

* * *

 

Ian is in bed when Mickey gets home.

He lies there while Mickey gets undressed in the dark. He smells a faint trace of pot when the air shifts around him. He speaks.

“Where were you?”

Mickey startles.

“Jesus Christ, Ian, I thought you were asleep.”

“I’m not. Where were you?”

“With Amy. Getting high.”

Ian looks up at the ceiling.

“Did you take your pills?”

Ian nods.

He feels the bed dip and the heat of his husband. He turns his head to look at the man lying next to him. Mickey brings up one of his hands to cup the side of Ian’s face. He whispers.

“We’re not okay.”

Ian closes his eyes to hide the tears until another whisper comes.

“But I want us to be.”

He opens his eyes to search Mickey’s face.

When they kiss, it’s gentle and cautious and lovely.

And when they make love, there’s actual love.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for my long absence. I was involved in a car accident that had left me incapacitated, but I am on the mend. Before you begin the following chapter, please be aware that dark thematic elements will present themselves from this chapter on. There will be two more chapters after this, and both will include material that may be triggering to some. I just want to forewarn you. Thank you for your patience, and I will update as soon as I can.

* * *

She sips the water they give her.

There’s silence as they all wait for her to continue. She wants to scream at them to give her some time. She’s been talking for hours about things she never thought she would speak of again. They want more and more, and she’s giving it to them.

Everything she knows. Everything she remembers. Everything she’s learned.

She’s giving them all of it, handing it to them on a silver platter, practically begging them to take it from her. She’s tired of holding it all; tired of being the keeper of this thing, these lives that grew bigger and heavier as the years went by. She’s giving these children these lovely, cruel lives in the hopes that she can be done with it. She doesn’t want to take this with her. She’s sick of carrying them wherever she goes, of lugging around baggage that was never hers to begin with. She’s traveled the world and with every step, it’s as though they’ve been right behind her, breathing on her neck, demanding to be remembered, to be felt. These troubling companions who could never see anyone but themselves have finally found time for her. Now that they need her. Now that they have no one else.

She asks for another break and hurries to the bathroom where she promptly enters a stall, bends over, and vomits. Tears spring to her eyes, and she pushes them back. The nausea abates and she stands, flushes the toilet, and rinses her mouth out at the sink. When she looks in the mirror, she swears for a second, she sees Ian behind her, the flash of red under fluorescent lights.

It’s almost done.

She closes her eyes.

* * *

 

They belong to each other.

Belong, is what Ian thinks when he runs his hands down Mickey’s body, bringing pleasure in every way he knows how.

Belong, is what he thinks as he makes room for himself inside Mickey, over and over again. Finding that place that only he knows. Conducting their bodies in ways that only he can.

They cling to each other as the pleasure peaks and then ebbs. Faces buried in necks. Harsh breathing stirring the air around them.

Belong, is what he says when he looks into Mickey’s eyes and sees love again.

* * *

 

Ian arrives home after a meeting with a publisher.

It’s a small press. Nothing special. But it’s something, he guesses.

He immediately searches for Mickey whom he finds in the bath. He disrobes and climbs in, leaning against his husband’s chest. He wraps Mickey’s arms around him and sighs.

“How did the meeting go?”

“Well, I guess. They agreed to publish it.”

Mickey leans his head against Ian’s, temple to temple.

“You don’t sound very happy about it.”

Ian sighs again.

“No, I am. It’s just…it won’t be recognized. It’ll be lost amongst the clutter.”

“You don’t know that.”

Ian gives a slight nod. “I do. They deserve more, you know? These poems. My words. Sometimes I feel like they’ll just…disappear. Like you and I will be the only ones who will remember them.”

This frightens him in a way he cannot truly describe, this lack of recognition. It’s as though he’ll disappear right along with his words; sucked into the void of the universe. A shiver runs down his spine so he pulls Mickey’s arms tighter around him. He closes his eyes as Mickey reassures him.

“Be patient. It’ll come.”

And it will. For both of them.

But they won’t ever see it.

* * *

 

No.

It’s the first word that comes to mind once Ian steps off the elevator to find his mother standing in front of his door. She rushes towards him, throwing her arms around him and hugging his rigid body. She steps back with her hands clasped on his biceps to admire him.

“You look wonderful.”

“What are you doing here?”

She laughs. It’s too loud. Her smile is too wide.

“I’m here to see you, silly. Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

He doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want to usher in the chaos that is his mother. She electrifies the air around her; he can already hear it crackling. He looks up briefly and swears the lights flicker a bit. He looks back at her and nods. He can never deny her. She’s his mother for better or worse. For the longest time, she was the only one who ever understood the life he led. Her wild blood runs through his veins.

She lets go of him when he makes a move towards his door to unlock it. She steps in first and immediately takes off her coat, letting it fall to the floor in a heap. He bends to pick it up, hanging it gently on the hooks by the door before doing the same with his coat. He follows her into the living room where she stands by the fireplace, running a finger along the picture frames poised on the mantle. She hums a slight tune before picking one up and staring at it.

“Who’s this? I’ve never seen him before.”

He walks over to her and looks at the picture she’s holding. It’s of him and Mickey on their wedding day, smiles bright, eyes focused only on each other.

“That’s Mickey. My husband.”

Monica looks at him, her lips slightly parted.

“Your husband?”

He nods his head.

“We’ve been married about eighteen months.”

She laughs.

“Oh, Ian. That’s so exciting. Congratulations.”

She wraps her arms around him again, and this time he does the same to her. He breathes her in, the smell of cigarettes and something sour. He wonders when was the last time she had a shower. She pulls away and looks at the picture again.

“He’s so handsome.”

“He is.”

Monica puts the picture back on the mantle and claps her hands.

“What do you want to do? We could go out. Or stay in. But let’s go out.”

Ian shakes his head.

“Mickey will be home soon. Why don’t you take a shower and freshen up a bit? I’ll get started on dinner.”

She deflates a bit before straightening up and nodding her head. He directs her towards the bathroom, providing a towel and some of his clothes. Once he hears the shower turn on, he walks into the kitchen and leans against the counter.

He hasn’t seen his mother in three years although she treats it as if it’s only been a few days. His mind automatically dredges up his childhood and the way Monica would bluster in and out of it. For years he loved and hated her for it, for leaving them without even a second glance, for leaving them in the hands of someone who left them in the hands of someone else. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

He has to get started on dinner.

* * *

 

Mickey arrives home to quite a surprise.

As soon as he walks into the kitchen, he’s grabbed by a woman whom he doesn’t know and hugged incredibly tight. He tenses and looks over her shoulder at Ian. The woman kisses his cheek and then pulls away.

“Mickey, I’ve heard so much about you. Ian, honey, he’s more handsome in person.”

Mickey looks to Ian for an explanation. His husband shrugs.

“Mickey, this is my mother Monica.”

He bites his lip and then nods.

“Nice to meet you. I didn’t know you were coming.”

Monica bounces a bit before responding.

“I didn’t either. I was in Indiana with some friends, and then I thought ‘why don’t I go see Ian?’ So here I am.”

He nods again.

“How long are you going to be in town?”

She shrugs.

“For as long as I want, I guess. Sometimes the road just calls. You never know when it’ll yell your name.”

Mickey looks at his husband again. Ian doesn’t meet his eye, choosing instead to focus on mixing the salad before picking up plates and handing them to his mother.

“Mom, will you set the table. Dinner is ready.”

She smiles and grabs the plates while Ian picks up some of the serving dishes. Mickey grabs his arm before he can move away. Ian shrugs him off and shakes his head.

“We’ll talk later.”

Mickey sighs, opens the refrigerator, and grabs a beer.

* * *

 

Monica chatters throughout dinner.

She regales them with tales of her adventures in Arizona where she lived in Phoenix for a few months.

“It’s kind of pretty. The mountains. Not the city. The city’s kind of blah, but there are some things to do out there. I would go to Chopper John’s. That’s where I met Jake. He’s the guy I went to Indiana with. We rode his motorcycle there. You and I should go to Oregon, Ian. You’d like it. Fresh air. Artsy people. There’s a guy I met there who I thought would be so right for you. I remember thinking, ‘Ian would love him.’”

Mickey clears his throat and takes a drink. Monica covers her mouth and then chuckles.

“Oops. I forgot.”

Mickey looks at Ian who is simply moving his food around his plate. He hasn’t taken a single bite all night. Mickey scratches his forehead.

“Have you gone to see everyone else?”

Monica gives Mickey a confused look before it dawns on her whom Mickey means by “everyone”. She waves her hand in dismissal.

“Later on them. I haven’t seen them in so long. It’s been how many years, Ian, since I saw them last? Four? Five? It was right before you and I went to Baja. Remember? We stood with that one guy who had the snake tattoo. You should have heard the way they would go at it. Remember?”

Ian lets his fork clatter on his plate before reaching for his wine glass. He downs it in one gulp and then reaches for the bottle, pouring himself another glass. Monica is oblivious to her son’s distress, continuing to tell her stories with abandon.

“Then there was that one time he and I went to Santa Fe. Mickey, you should take Ian there. Maybe a second honeymoon. It was so pretty and relaxing. Ian and I met up with these guys who I swear were the coolest. Remember that? We ended up hitching a ride with them to…where? Ian, you know. It was that guy who wanted you to –"

Mickey stands up, his chair clattering to the floor.

“Enough.”

Monica sits up straight before slumping back into her chair.

“What did I say? I was just reminiscing.”

Before Mickey has a chance to reply, Ian speaks.

“Mom, how about I make up the couch for you? You can sleep there for the time being.”

Monica nods.

Ian stands up and begins clearing the table, all the while ignoring his husband.

* * *

Mickey paces back and forth in their bedroom.

He rubs his hands over his face and through his hair before turning to face the door when he hears Ian open and close it. Ian moves towards their bureau, reaching for his pill box. Mickey watches as he takes his nightly medication. Once Ian swallows his pills, Mickey speaks.

“What the fuck, Ian?”

Ian ignores him as he begins to undress.

“Hey, I’m talking to you.”

“I know. I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“How about starting with why you’re allowing your mother to stay here.”

“Where else is she supposed to go? No one else will take her in.”

“That’s because she’s a fucking menace. We should be throwing her ass into a goddamn hospital.”

Ian’s face turns red.

“If you’re going to throw her in a hospital, you might as well throw me in as well. I’m just as crazy as she is.”

Mickey rolls his eyes which only infuriates Ian more.

“Don’t roll your fucking eyes at me. I know that’s exactly what you’re thinking.”

Mickey shakes his head in disbelief.

“Jesus Christ, Ian, are we back to this? This is where you want to go?”

Ian steps closer to him and pokes Mickey's chest with his finger.

“You’re the one taking it there, asshole. You’re the one asking me to kick my mother – _my mother_ – out of my own home. You have no fucking right to ask me to do that.”

Mickey takes a few steps back as though he is expecting Ian to hit him before shaking his head.

“Why are you inviting disappointment into our home?”

Ian shrugs.

“I live with multiple disappointments every day. What’s one more?”

Mickey clenches his jaw.

“Go fuck yourself.”

He pushes past Ian and rips their bedroom door open.

Ian hears his mother call his name right before the front door slams shut.

* * *

 

The day of Ian’s book launch party arrives.

It’s been a week, and he and Mickey are still not speaking. He wants to call a truce, wants to apologize, beg for forgiveness. He knows it isn’t right, the fight that occurred. He knows something deeper is the matter, something that has nothing to do with Mickey, something that even Ian is struggling to place.

He watches his mother flit from group to group, thanking everyone for coming as if they are all here to see her. He stares at her, stares at the woman who could never stay still, at the mother who could never bring solace. She’s a whirl of pure energy.

He thinks back to the argument with Mickey and looks more carefully at his mother, wondering if he’s watching himself, if he’s watching his mirror image, a doppelganger with blonde hair. He feels a tap on his shoulder and turns to find Svetlana smiling at him.

“Congratulations.”

She kisses his cheek and twines her arm through his. He turns back to look at his mother. Svetlana follows his gaze.

“When did she come back?”

“A week ago. She’s been sleeping on our couch.”

Svetlana sniffs.

“Judging by the look on Mickey’s face, I’m assuming he doesn’t approve.”

“He thinks she’s crazy. If he thinks that about her, then he thinks that about me.”

Svetlana sighs.

“Ian, don’t make your mother’s mistakes your own. You’ll only ruin everything.”

She turns to look at him and catches a glint of tears in his eyes.

“What is it?”

He whispers.

“I’m drowning, Svetlana.”

He turns his head towards her. His look takes her breath away.

* * *

 

At the end of the night, Ian walks home with his mother.

She talks nonstop about everyone she met and what interesting things they said about their lives. His own thoughts are racing, and her rapid words aren’t helping. He places his hand on her forearm to silence her. She stops walking.

“What?”

He takes a deep breath.

“Do you ever regret it?”

“Regret what?”

“Everything. The pain you caused. The heartache. The anger. The sadness. All of it. Do you regret it?”

She gives him a look filled with what he could only describe as pity.

“What does it matter? It wouldn’t change anything.”

And this is where he differs from her. She has no room for regret. He has nothing but room. He takes a shaky breath.

“Mom…the medication isn’t working anymore.”

She cups his cheek and gives a sad smile.

“Did it ever?”

She wraps an arm around his waist and directs him back home.

* * *

 

The next morning, he wakes to an empty couch, and a sadness deep in his bones.

Last night was the last time he’ll ever see his mother.

* * *

 

Ian is right in the end. His book is lost amongst the clutter.

It’ll be thirty more years before his words will make a dent in the world.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for my long absence. I was suffering from the worst case of writer's block and emotional upheaval. Thank you all for your patience.

Why?

She’s snapped out of her reverie by this question.

She tilts her head back, elongating her neck so that she can run a hand down it.

Eyes close. Breathe deep.

When she opens her eyes, six people with rabid faces stare at her.

What horrible little shits, she thinks as she lights another cigarette.

These children sit close to her, imperceptibly leaning forward. They’re peasants at the Coliseum yelling for blood. They’re people who slow down at car accidents, craning necks in the hopes of seeing carnage so they have something to discuss over dinner. Mickey would have hated them.

She winces slightly at the thought. Towards the end, Mickey despised people. Hated them for everything they reminded him of, for everything they clamored to know when all he wanted was to be left alone. She doesn’t blame him. She too distanced herself from people who asked too many questions.

Until now.

Now, she answers those questions. Gives every detail despite how bloody and raw they were. Are. They say she is the only one who can provide the information they seek without hearsay or broken bits and pieces . The only one who didn’t play telephone with their lives.

Neither one of their families approve of this. She met with Lip a week ago. She sat quietly as he railed against the curious, the rubberneckers, the gossipmongers.

What’s the purpose of this, he asked.

What does it matter now, he argued.

They’re dead. Let them be dead.

He didn’t understand.

Yes, they’re dead.

So what’s the point of hiding now?

* * *

 

They slide backwards.

After Monica’s visit, the progress they made evaporates. Ian continues to reach out, but Mickey is distant. Ian has become nothing but a speck of dust in the air around him.

He’ll wait him out. That’s all he has to do. He’ll hold on with a practiced grip until Mickey finally turns to him again.

The waiting doesn’t help his feelings of being disjointed, of being blurry and vague. He needs an anchor. He needs Mickey to hold onto his legs and his hands and his head before pieces of him blow away in the breeze.

He writes about this. About the too loose feeling in his body. About the carelessness building underneath his skin. He writes and writes and writes and writes and writes. He doesn’t know how much longer he can go without giving up completely.

But then the witches start talking. And he listens to them. Listens to their grimy voices and cracked words. Listens to them tell their secrets so that only Ian will know them, so that only he will understand. He writes their stories down. Tales that are so similar to his own, it’s unsettling. His pen scratches out accounts of a deadly mother, a poisoned father. Siblings that betrayed them out of jealousy and fear.

He wants them to predict the future for him. He asks them to read tea leaves or tarot cards or the stars so that he can know what to expect, what to prepare for. They refuse.

He doesn’t want to know what awaits him, they say.

He doesn’t want to understand the cruelty of the universe, they claim.

He does and he does. He argues with them, but they refuse to relent, choosing instead to tell him the story of their demise. They talk about their accuser. Their judge and executioner. The person who chose to destroy them just because he could. And by the time they were strapped to a stake, it didn’t matter whether they chose to confess and repent. Love had betrayed them.

And innocent or guilty, when love is gone, everything burns.

* * *

 

Something is wrong.

Mickey knows it. He watches Ian carefully. Notes the tilt of his head as if he’s trying to hear someone clearly, the flicker of his eyes as though he has caught sight of someone in his periphery. The air crackles around him, hinting of the mania below. He wants to scratch open Ian’s skin and release the poison that’s oozing inside of him, the one his mother put there with her defective genes and careless nurturing.

In the end, he prepares for battle instead.

He waits on the couch for Ian to come home from wherever he went at an ungodly hour. Mickey awoke to find Ian gone with no note. He left his phone behind.

Anxiety builds. Mickey’s stomach hurts. His hands shake. He thinks of ways to broach the topic of a joint visit to Ian’s psychiatrist, of medication adjustments, of symptoms. He’s afraid though. He doesn’t know if Ian will readily agree; if there will be a fight, if Ian will become violent.

Mickey hears the front door open and close. He rubs his hands over his face before standing up to meet Ian in the hallway.

“Where have you been?”

Ian startles and looks almost shocked to see Mickey before composing his features to appear nonchalant.

“I went to Svetlana’s.”

“Before seven in the morning? I find that difficult to believe.”

Ian shrugs.

“Believe what you want. That’s where I was.”

“What did you guys do?”

Ian walks away from him to head into the kitchen. He puts the kettle on.

“Had breakfast.”

Mickey watches as Ian grabs a mug from the cabinet and lavender tea from the canister. He bites his lip as Ian feigns interest in watching water boil.

“You and I need to have a talk.”

Ian tenses.

“What about?”

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know. Please.”

The kettle whistles. Ian pulls it off the burner and makes himself a cup of tea all the while ignoring Mickey.

“Ian.”

Ian slams the kettle down on the counter.

“What?”

He turns to look at him, and Mickey can already tell that Ian knows what he’s about to say.

“You’re experiencing symptoms.”

Ian pushes away from the counter and approaches Mickey.

“Fuck you.”

He walks past him, leaving Mickey to follow him into their bedroom.

“I know there’s something wrong. Ever since your mother arrived – "

Ian attempts to interrupt him so Mickey speaks louder.

“Ever since your mother arrived, you’ve been experiencing symptoms. I know it; I can see it.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course I do. Was I not there last time? Did I not see this happen before?”

Ian begins to strip the sheets from their bed and doesn’t answer.

“Don’t you dare fucking ignore me, Ian. Talk to me.”

Ian yells.

“Why?”

Mickey’s eyes begin to water.

“Because you’re my husband and because you are sick. You need to go to the doctor. You need to adjust the medication or change it or something. We need to get ahead of this.”

Ian throws the balled up sheets on the ground and walks up to his husband, poking him in the chest when he’s close enough.

“I’m fine. And if you don’t like that answer, then you can go fuck yourself.”

With that, Ian storms out of the room and into his study, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

 

There’s a pounding at her door.

She groans from her supine position on the couch, hoping that the madman behind it will go away. Unfortunately, her luck has always been shit.

She stands and slowly walks to the door. She is not surprised in the least to find Mickey on her doorstep. Svetlana steps to the side to let him in. He walks past her, looking a bit lost. She sighs.

“Ian’s sick.”

She walks back to the couch and lies down, draping her left arm over her closed eyes.

“I know.”

“He’s denying it. Told me to go fuck myself when I brought it up.”

She feels a migraine coming. A dull throb is beginning to set in.

“He’s a stubborn thing, isn’t he?”

There’s a brief pause before Mickey responds.

“Was he here this morning?”

She sniffs.

“At five. He brought breakfast.”

“What did he say to you?”

She shrugs.

“Spoke about his work. Apparently, the muses have reached out to him. Although they sound more like the witches from _Macbeth_ to me.”

“Shit.”

Mickey rubs his forehead before addressing her.

“I don’t know what to do.”

There is absolute silence while she contemplates her next words. She is unsure if she wants to fire the first shot. Svetlana takes a deep breath and points to her coffee table.

“There.”

Mickey looks at where she’s pointing.

“What?”

She points again.

“There. The pamphlet.”

Mickey grabs it and looks it over. She keeps her eyes closed. She doesn’t want to see what she has set into motion. She hears the uncertainty in Mickey’s voice when he finally speaks.

“This is a mental institution.”

She shakes her head slightly.

“It’s a behavioral health center. A good one.”

“How do you know about this place?”

“Henry went twice. They helped stabilize him.”

More silence. The throbbing increases.

Mickey whispers.

“I don’t know if I could institutionalize him.”

She sighs.

“At least you’ll know he’s safe.”

A few minutes later she hears her door close. She opens her eyes and looks at the coffee table.

The pamphlet is gone.

* * *

 

The thing of it is, Mickey can’t remember a time when he wasn’t afraid.

He was afraid of his father for seventeen years before he ran away to couch surf and make shit pay as a dishwasher at The Waffle House. He was afraid then because he didn’t know where he would sleep from one night to the next. He told himself it was better than it had been, that being homeless was better than the home he left. This was his mantra, but the fear remained.

He experienced fear when he met Joshua, a forty-two year old photographer whose bed he warmed from the age of eighteen to twenty-three. Joshua was the one who put him through college, who gave him a camera and taught him how to devastate with photos instead of words because Mickey was always awful with words.

The fear was different this time. It had more to do with not being good enough, talented enough, loveable enough. When Joshua passed away, the fear of being alone and having to survive without any support came rushing to the forefront. And he lived with that particular fear for years.

Until Ian came.

Ian came, and it struck again. Wanting too much, being desired too much, everything being too damn much was what kept him up at night. But warm hands and lips and skin kept the fright at bay.

Yes, it was there, but it wasn’t all there was.

The dam has broken, though, and the fear has returned with an intensity he didn’t know was possible. It’s deeply set, bone-chilling and nerve-wracking and all those words people use to describe horror films.

He’s losing sleep again. A doctor tells him he has an ulcer. Tells him he should stop smoking, stop drinking coffee, stop the stress and the anger and the downright despair. He wants to laugh. He wants to howl and shake and cry with the relief of laughter. But the doctor wouldn’t understand. Couldn’t comprehend how Mickey can’t stop any of those things, can’t unlink those chains without chewing off his leg first. He doesn’t have that kind of determination in him anymore. He doesn’t have a flight or fight reflex. He has freeze and pray. Pray and freeze. Pray for a good day, a good hour, a good _something_ that won’t result in slamming of doors and tirades about his lack of empathy, his lack of compassion, his lack of love, his general lacking. He’s reminded that his existence is unnecessary.

_He is unnecessary._

He freezes. And that’s where he remains. Frozen in time. Frozen in space.

So, Mickey was born into fear.

And he’ll die in it too.

* * *

 

People avoid him.

Ian knows this. He knows by the way supposed friends stop returning his calls. He leaves voicemail after voicemail to colleagues, associates, potential publishers, but no one calls back. His messages are rambles, he knows. He tries to stay on topic, but he can’t help his mind moving into different directions, can’t help that some things strike him as funny, others as sad.

He runs into people on the street. People he knows work quickly to move away from him. They come up with excuses as to why they can’t talk or grab coffee or say “hello”. People are too busy in this world it seems. The people he knows are too busy.

He stops a publisher on the street. Jake or Jack? Maybe Dan? He met with him before, back when Ian was looking for someone to publish his second book of poetry. Ian approaches him, reaches out his hand, and the man shrinks away. The man closes in on himself which pisses Ian off. How dare he.

How _dare_ he.

This man is no one, nothing. He’s the owner of some small time publishing company, Chicago-based, not well known. Ian makes it very clear this man is no better than him.

Where do you get off, he asks.

_Where do you get off?_

He wanders sometimes. Finds himself in neighborhoods he isn’t familiar with, but as long as there’s a bus line he’s okay. He walks and comes up with first stanzas, first lines to begin masterpieces. He recites them with every step. He’s a genius.

He’s a fucking genius.

He thinks of Mickey. Mickey, his husband who is falling short of who he thought he was. Their marriage falls short of what he thought it’d be. He thinks about divorce. About freedom. About coming home to an empty apartment and not being riddled with questions like so many bullets in his flesh.

What Mickey doesn’t know won’t hurt him, he thinks.

He laughs.

It won’t hurt him.

* * *

 

Andrew calls him.

Mickey walks towards the gallery while smoking a cigarette, his palms sweaty. He had emailed him a couple of weeks ago about meeting to discuss another showing.

Mickey has an idea for a new series, one dealing strictly with the homeless population in Chicago. He’s been speaking with some people in Uptown where a major mental health and homeless service provider is located. He hangs out by the viaduct on Lawrence right off Lakeshore Drive where people are congregating now that winter is coming, staking their claim within that shelter. Mickey’s even been in contact with Inspiration Corporation, trying to work something out so that he can speak with some of their clients. He’s doing the footwork. He just needs a date.

When he gets to Andrew’s gallery, he stubs out his cigarette and takes a deep breath before opening the glass door. He’s greeted by Andrew’s receptionist as she waves him through to his office. Andrew’s on his computer when Mickey knocks on his office door. Andrew stands up, a small smile on his face and his hand outreached.

“Mickey, thanks for coming by.”

Mickey shakes his hand.

“Thanks for calling me. I’ve been looking forward to talking with you.”

Andrew gestures for Mickey to sit down while closing the door. He walks back to sit behind his desk. Mickey immediately begins speaking.

“I’m really excited by my new series. As I explained in my email –"

Andrew cuts him off, a look of concern etched on his face.

“I didn’t ask to meet to talk about your work.”

“Then why are we meeting?”

Andrew takes a breath, leans forward, and clasps his hands.

“I wanted to talk to you about Ian.”

Mickey’s stomach hurts.

“He came in here the other day. He was acting very erratic; he wasn’t making any sense.”

Mickey swallows and stares down at his shaking hands.

“He was frightening some of my patrons. I had to ask him to leave.”

Mickey rubs at his face.

“You know I like Ian. I respect him; I think he’s incredibly talented. But I can’t have him coming to my business acting the way…that he was acting.”

Mickey wants to cry, but he clenches his jaw instead.

“Has he seen a doctor?”

Mickey scoffs.

“Do you think we would be talking about this if he had?”

Silence descends and it’s maddening.

Andrew sighs and begins to speak, but the uncertainty in his voice tells Mickey he’s about to say something that he suspects will piss Mickey off.

“I spoke with Svetlana. She told me about that hospital – a behavioral health center – that Henry attended. I think something like that would really benefit Ian.”

Mickey clasps his hands between his knees and rocks forward.

“Mickey, you’re struggling. Everyone sees that. We all know that it’s not easy dealing with someone who has...the condition that Ian has. It’s okay for you to ask for some help with this.”

Mickey stands up and begins to pace. If he doesn’t move, he’s going to fucking lose it. Andrew watches him for a bit before speaking again.

“I would be happy to arrange for his admittance. I know they’ll provide transportation if it’s needed.”

Mickey can feel adrenaline coursing through him and he wants to scream. This isn’t how his life was supposed to go. He was never supposed to be in this position.

“So, I’m supposed to do what, Andrew? I’m supposed to comm –"

His voice breaks. He has to take a minute to calm himself before he continues.

“I’m supposed to commit him? Throw him in a mental institution?”

“It’s not forever. It’s just to get him stable. He’ll be out before you know it.”

Mickey’s going to be sick. He walks out of Andrew’s office and quickly makes for the bathroom. He walks into a stall, not even bothering to close the door behind him before he throws up into the toilet. A few heaves later, he wipes his mouth with some toilet paper and flushes. He doesn’t bother rinsing out his mouth.

Mickey walks out of the gallery all the while feeling Andrew’s gaze following him.

* * *

 

Ian doesn’t come home.

Mickey doesn’t sleep at all. He spends the night calling everyone they know, police stations and hospitals with no luck. He goes to places he thinks Ian might be, but Ian isn’t anywhere Mickey thinks to look. Svetlana comes over and waits at the apartment while Mickey scours the city looking for his husband.

Mickey is so fucking stupid. So fucking stupid for letting it get this far, for letting it get this bad again. What can he do? He doesn’t know how to live like this. No one taught him how to care for someone who doesn’t want to be cared for, who doesn’t want to be well.

Goddamn his weakness. Goddamn his refusal to push and demand. He’s such a fucking waste.

He’s on the phone with Lip who has also been searching when he gets a text from Svetlana.

Ian’s home.

* * *

 

His nerves are shot.

By the time he rushes into the apartment, he’s trembling and clammy. He grabs Ian by the shoulders and crushes his body to his, caressing his hair and gripping his neck. He pulls away, framing Ian’s face with his hands, checking for nonexistent injuries and sobbing like the fucking world is ending. He grips Ian by the shoulders and shakes him.

“Where the fuck were you? I was fucking out of mind. I thought you were hurt or dead or…don’t fucking do that again, Ian.”

He pulls him towards him again, wrapping his arms tightly around Ian’s body and crying into his neck. Ian pulls away and Mickey releases him.

“Where were you?”

Ian’s eyes are hard. Cold emeralds set in the face of the man he loves. Mickey asks again.

“Where were you?”

“I was with someone.”

Mickey startles.

“What? Who?”

“His name was Brian.”

Mickey can feel the heat in his face and the tears come again. He asks who Brian is, but it doesn't matter really.

“Someone. No one.”

He steps back, bumping into Svetlana in the process. He feels her move away from him, hears her footsteps move further into the room. Ian’s an immoveable object. Mickey takes another step back.

“Did you fuck him?”

He knows the answer already. Of course, he knows the answer.

Ian remains silent. He doesn’t need to say anything. His guilt weighs heavy in the room and the truth slams like a hammer into Mickey’s chest. The tears have stopped.

The tears have fucking stopped.

It’s quiet as Mickey turns around and walks to their bedroom. When he returns, he throws Svetlana’s pamphlet at Ian’s feet. Ian bends to pick it up, freezing when he reads the front. He looks up at Mickey.

“I should have locked you up when I had the chance.”

Ian is about to speak when Mickey cuts in.

“Leave. You don’t live here anymore.”


	10. Chapter 10

Shock.

That’s the look that registers on all their faces.

Shock.

She rolls her eyes.

They know the ending. Everyone knows the goddamn ending. Everyone knows this is a tragedy, but no one seems to truly know what that means.

But she does.

She knows that there was no fairytale romance. There was no prince on a white steed. There was no distant sunset and happily ever after. There were only tears and pain and chaos. There was love there too, she supposes. But that’s not what she remembers. How could it be?

The children continue to stare at her because this is not what they were expecting. What fools they are. It’s high time they learned that fairytales don’t exist.

This should teach them, she thinks.

This’ll teach them.

* * *

 

Ian leaves.

He leaves and moves in with Svetlana and regrets nothing. He regrets nothing because Mickey started this. He opened this door over a year ago, and Ian wouldn’t have done it if it hadn’t been for that. If it hadn’t been for that, they easily could have been happy. But he did, and they aren’t. That was that, and there were no regrets.

A week goes by. Two. Three.

Ian writes in a mad rush of strikingly white heat. Writes about the feel of another man’s hands on his back arms legs face. Different. Bad different. Good different? A shrug. Shower. Wipe away the remnants of a man who isn’t loved. The look on a person’s face the second his heart breaks. The sound of a marriage being ripped at the seams.

And his fault. His fault. His fault. His fault. His fault. His fault. His fault.

Then he starts to cry. Cries and walks and realizes that he’s destroyed everything. He calls Mickey. Calls. Calls. Calls. No answer. Texts. Lots of texts. Texts of apology, of repentance, of adoration, of utter devotion and love.

_I love you._

_Please love me._

_Lots of mistakes._

_And regret. And regret._

_Let me come home._

_Answer me!_

_Goddamn you, I can’t stop crying._

_Don’t do this to me._

Mickey doesn’t respond.

He doesn’t respond, and Ian wishes he were dead.

* * *

 

Mickey holds it together.

He calls Mandy, and they drink while she lists all the reasons why he should file for divorce. He calls Iggy, and they smoke pot, and he listens while his brother declares that he never liked Ian. Always found him to be selfish and self-absorbed. He calls Amy, and they drink and smoke pot, and Amy curses Ian, curses men, curses love and all of its forms.

Poets are the fucking worst, she proclaims.

They dream with big flowery words all the while setting fire to their surroundings, she snipes.

He doesn’t commiserate with any of them. He sits quietly and listens to the fussing and the complaining and the analyzing of his marriage. They’re trying to make him feel better; trying to make him feel like he dodged a bullet, but the person they’re all damning to hell is not the person he knows. I

an is reckless. He’s stubborn and demanding and irrational and severely mentally ill. But he’s not this bad person that they’re making him out to be. He knows this. He really does. But even while knowing this, he can’t find it in him to forgive. He ignores calls and texts because he knows that if he answers, if he reaches out, nothing will change. They’ll be as they were. Ian will be doing as well as expected considering he’s unmedicated. And Mickey will do as well as expected considering that he’s caring for a man he doesn’t trust and is sometimes afraid of.

He lies awake at night thinking of this and everything else that pertains to his life, their life, their home, the world that they’ve created. It’s not real though. It doesn’t feel real. He’ll just have to wait until it does, he supposes, before he can truly decide on things he should be making decisions for.

A week later, reality sets in. He’s buttering his toast and he looks at his coffee mug, and it hits him.

His marriage is done.

* * *

 

Svetlana’s at her wit’s end.

Her best friend is experiencing another mental breakdown in her apartment, and his husband won’t return her calls. Every night, she listens as Ian paces while muttering to himself. She’s tried talking to him about this before, but he’s only snapped at her and then continued on so she had given up.

It’s all like before. The crying and begging voicemails left on Mickey’s phone. The near hysterical behavior. The goddamn pacing.

If he stays here any longer, she’ll lose her mind. She was not meant to care for someone like this. Someone is shirking their responsibilities, and she will not stand for it.

She grabs her purse and rushes out the door.

* * *

 

Svetlana has interrupted his work.

She can tell by his frustration and the way he stalks back into his studio that he is focused on something, something that has nothing to do with the situation at hand. She’s happy she’s disrupted him.

The bastard.

There’s a half-naked man posing on the floor. Mickey had been photographing him from above, using a golden light reflector to soften the man’s features. She walks over to him and kicks his shoulder lightly.

“Get up, grab your shirt, and get out.”

The man looks to Mickey for direction.

“Don’t look at him; look at me. Get out.”

Mickey nods his head, and the man leaves quickly without uttering a word. Once the door shuts, Mickey works on adjusting his camera while refusing to look at Svetlana.

“Why are you here?”

“I’d like to address the state of your marriage.”

Mickey snorts and pushes past her to his equipment table. She turns to follow him.

“I have your husband in my apartment crying and pacing and carrying on like he’s been given a month to live. I want to know when you’ll be taking him home.”

He mumbles something she doesn’t catch.

“I didn’t hear you.”

He turns to her.

“I said ‘I’m not’.”

She glares at him.

“What are you doing?”

Mickey turns to look at her fully. His eyes are almost gray with gloom. She’d feel sorry for him if she didn’t hate him so goddamn much.

“I can’t live my life like this anymore.”

His shoulders slump.

“I’m exhausted, Svetlana. I’m so worn out that I can barely function through the day. All I want to do is sleep and sleep and sleep.”

His voice cracks and he rubs away the tears welling in his eyes. Finally, he just lets them fall.

“I can’t do it anymore. I can’t.”

She walks closer to him until they’re only a foot apart from each other. She lowers her voice, her tone threatening.

“You’re weak. I knew it from the first time I saw you. I could smell it on you. A sickly sour smell that burns my nose.”

She steps impossibly closer. She wants to claw at him but figures that words cut deeper than nails can.

“I told Ian not to marry you. I told him you were a mistake. I wish he had listened to me. He wouldn’t be as sick as he is if it weren’t for you.”

She looks him up and down, her stance intimidating, her eyes narrow.

“Fucking rot, you piece of shit.”

With that, she turns and storms out of Mickey’s studio, slamming the door behind her.

* * *

 

Ian’s come to believe that he’s more fire than human.

The way he burns through lives is proof of that. He can’t get his husband to listen to him. He tried going back to the apartment, but Mickey changed the locks. He went to Mickey’s studio, but he either wasn’t there or just didn’t answer the door. He went to Mickey’s school but was escorted off the property when he made a scene about not being able to find his husband’s classroom.

Ian knows people are talking about him. He senses it in the air. He walks down the street, and people he thought were friends turn around and pretend not to see him. He stops by Andrew’s gallery to talk about mundane things. The look of pity on Andrew’s face pisses him off and he tells Andrew that. After he storms out, he knows damn well that Andrew will call Mickey to report him like a fucking snitch. Another nail in the coffin. Goddamn prick. Ian never liked him anyway.

He knows Svetlana went to visit Mickey. By the way she came home one day, stomping around the apartment and shutting herself up in her bedroom, he knew. She went to plead Ian’s case, but Mickey is teaching him a lesson. His reticence is telling Ian that he won’t stand for betrayal. Ian leaves a voicemail letting his husband know that he will never make the same mistake again. He will never allow deceit to sully their marriage ever again. Mickey has to believe him.

He fucking has to.

Ian continues to work. Composes works of art, painting paper with his talk of how easy destruction can be when someone sets their mind to it. He writes about his doppelgänger of a mother. The chaos in her eyes that mirror his own. How a finger running down his hip in such a loving way dispelled that thought until the finger was no longer there. Until the man was too hurt and the other was too guilt-ridden to console each other.

He argues that he never put the man through anything. The man willingly followed until he didn’t. And isn’t that the greatest betrayal? The promise of forever cannot be rescinded.

Ian blames himself. Chaos is chaos is chaos is chaos.

And in the end, all that ever was, was.

* * *

 

She doesn’t know what happened next.

All she knows is that they were separated for two months. Ian seemed to get better. He was grieving his loss but was writing. He was always happier when he was writing.

She knows she went out for the night despite Ian deciding not to come with.

She knows she came home around three o’clock in the morning.

She knows that sometime between the time she left and the time she returned home Ian decided to kill himself.

She knows that he went into her bathroom and closed the door.

She knows he didn’t come out.


	11. Chapter 11

She stares at her hands.

Stares at the prominent blue veins, the papery skin. She used to have such lovely hands, but time has taken that away from her along with everything else. She’s lived too long. That’s all there is to it. She was never one of those insufferable fools who believed that they would live forever. She was smarter than that. But she has lived far longer than she thought she would, and it’s become such a burden. She guesses it doesn’t matter much anymore. The clock is ticking and midnight is approaching.

She refuses to look at the children. She can’t bear to see their crestfallen faces. She can hear a sniffle or two and that is enough. After Ian’s death, she remembers knowing that none of it was over. She knew that more was coming. She could feel it in the air, taste it on her tongue. The electricity of it making her skin prickle. More tragedy was coming.

She stares at her once lovely hands.

Tragedy was always coming.

* * *

 

They all stare at the grieving widower.

He sits on a couch at the front of the funeral parlor facing the casket. It’s closed. The family wanted it open, but Ian was his husband. He has a direct claim to him, not them. He chose the closed casket, and there wasn’t a damn thing they could do about it.

Mandy and Iggy try to run interference, but it’s no use. People come up to him anyway to offer their condolences, but what the fuck for? They lay their little wreaths and flowers at Ian’s feet before sitting next to him on the couch. Women gently lay their hands on a shoulder. Men who are trained not to show their grief in public mumble their apologies, not wanting to look at what could potentially be their future.

Ian was such an amazing person, they say.

Ian was a magnificent poet, they proclaim.

Ian was so kind, so caring, so sweet, such a literary genius.

He can’t stand the lot of them. Every word they vomit is bullshit, and he has no patience for it. If they were friends, they abandoned him long ago. If they know the family, then they never knew _him_ at all.

Lip barely looks at him; doesn’t speak. Fiona and Debbie do their best, but they are so lost in their own grief that they can’t focus on anyone but themselves. Carl and Liam are just there, background pieces to the more dominant players. He doesn’t blame any of them. He really doesn’t care to be honest.

He thinks about their last conversation, about the utter fucking mess he made. He should have…

At the cemetery, he doesn’t listen to the priest. Why the family wanted a priest, he will never understand. Yes, they were Catholic, but none of them practiced the faith, and Ian was an atheist. Debbie somehow got it into her head that he wouldn’t rest in peace unless a priest officiated the funeral, and she looks so much like Ian when she cries, that he couldn’t refuse her.

Lip gives the eulogy and doesn’t mention him once. It’s fine. What does he care? Let Lip rewrite history. None of it fucking matters in the grand scheme of things. Fiona talks as well. She stands in front of everyone and sobs while she tells them that her last words to her brother were “I love you.” Apparently, Ian had called her before he did what he did. They talked a good while. Even made plans to have breakfast soon. He told her he was doing well; they were doing well, were happy and were in love, and were thinking about going to Paris soon. A second honeymoon of sorts. She believed every goddamn lie Ian told her. She doesn’t mention that though. Doesn’t mention that his last words to her were lies. If she did, then she would have to wonder whether he meant the “I love you” and it is best not to question something like that. Just leave it alone.

Mandy stands next to him, and he puts a rose on the casket when she tells him to. He stands there and watches as they lower his husband into the ground. He refuses to drop the handful of dirt he was instructed to grab. He will not add anything more to this travesty.

People stare at the grieving widower as he stiffly walks away, the shadow of his husband walking by his side.

* * *

 

She doesn’t go to the funeral.

Instead, Svetlana drinks four bottles of wine and reads Ian’s only published book of poetry on her couch. She doesn’t cry. Even when she goes into her bathroom, even when she enters the guest room where his belongings still remain, untouched, exactly where he left them. She has to move. She can’t live here with his ghost and her solitude. She’d go mad.

She hasn’t spoken to anyone since the night Ian died. She’s been forgotten, the focus being on that traitor of a husband and Ian’s estranged family. Fucking worthless, they are. Wasn’t _she_ the one taking care of him in the end? Where are her fucking condolences, huh? Where the fuck is the sympathy?

She’s angry. Angry at the fucking unfairness of it all. First Henry and now Ian, and she can’t catch a fucking break. She stalks around her apartment, screaming and destroying her belongings. Pillows are ripped open, the stuffing bursting out into the air, floating briefing and then falling slowly to the ground. Broken dishes litter her kitchen floor. She breaks mirrors and taunts the seven years bad luck. She rends her clothes, sweeps her makeup and perfume onto the floor, cutting her foot on the glass. She wants a fight. She wants to claw. She grabs her keys and stumbles out of her apartment.

She wants to meet the murderer.

* * *

 

Mandy insists on staying.

She wants to take care of him. Make sure he eats and sleeps and showers. He wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all. So he does. He laughs and laughs while Iggy stares in fear and Mandy cries. He laughs because the man on whom he walked out, the man with whom he was supposed to spend the rest of his life, is dead. He laughs because it makes sense. Death isn’t supposed to make sense. That’s the point of it. Every person whose loved one has died always asks the same question: why? Young or old, people always ask “why him?” or “why her?” Murderers, and rapists, and serial killers live for fucking years, and yet adults and children who are vibrant and wonderful and love life die. And then people say that old fucking adage “only the good die young” and it pisses him off because why? And if only good people die young, then what the fuck does that say about the people who are still alive?

He knows what it says about him. It says that he killed his husband. It says that he took someone’s life because he was weak and stupid and selfish and a coward. It says that he should be the one who is dead. Not his husband. Not Ian. But he isn’t dead. Ian is, and it makes fucking sense because HE is the bad person and not Ian. And that is why he is alive and laughing in his living room and Ian is rotting in a casket he picked out in a cemetery that he will never see again.

He quiets his laughter into chuckles before finally settling down.

He then gets up, walks into the bedroom, and slams the door.

* * *

 

Svetlana lets herself in.

She slams the front door and is startled by a woman who looks so much like Mickey that it is eerie. The woman furrows her brow before it dawns on her that she recognizes Svetlana.

“You’re one of Ian’s friends, right?”

Svetlana scoffs.

“Ian doesn’t have friends anymore. Ian is dead.”

The woman blanches somewhat. Svetlana clenches her jaw.

“Where is he?”

“Ian? He’s –"

Svetlana raises her voice.

“I’m not talking about fucking Ian. I’m talking about that fucking Judas of a husband.”

Mickey’s double image bites her lip and looks towards the bedroom.

“Mickey’s not –"

Svetlana pushes past her and starts walking towards the bedroom. The accomplice starts pulling on her, and they begin to struggle with each other before the bedroom door opens and out walks the man she despises.

“Let her go, Mandy.”

Svetlana pulls her arm out of Mandy’s grasp and glares at Mickey. He avoids eye contact by looking at his sister.

“Can you give us a bit?”

Mandy nods and walks towards Ian’s study. As soon as she is gone, Svetlana pushes him into the bedroom and slams the door. She begins hitting him, slamming her fists on his chest and shoulders, slapping his face. And he stands there. Allows her to abuse him until she calms down. After she moves away from him, he sits on the foot of the bed and watches as she paces before confronting him.

“I hate you. I hate the way you look. Your sickly looking skin and those fucking ugly tattoos. That fucking bowlegged walk like you’ve taken too much dick in your life. I hate how miserable you made him. He died unhappy because of you. He died knowing you didn’t love him or care about him. He died ALL ALONE because you were a selfish piece of shit.”

He just sits there and takes it. Looks at her with the face of a man who has completely lost his will to live. She storms out of the room before she begins to pity him.

On the way back to her apartment, she realizes that she forgot to tell him about the note Ian left for him.

Forgot to taunt him with the fact that she would never let him read it.

* * *

 

He sinks into himself.

He takes a leave of absence with absolutely no intention of returning to the teaching position. A doctor that Mandy makes him visit prescribes antidepressants and anti-anxiety medication. A sleeping pill to put an end to the insomnia. He flushes all of it. His husband would be proud.

He falls into the bottle. He smokes two packs a day. He has no appetite. Mandy makes him smoke weed with her every time she comes over just to get him to eat some of the food she cooks for him. She’s the only person he talks too. He turned everybody else away until they just stopped trying. It didn’t take very long.

The Gallagher family had come over about a week after the funeral to collect some of Ian’s things. He refused to let them in. There was an argument. The police were called. He threatened to file an order of protection if they bothered him again. They never did.

Despite all of this, he works. He doesn’t think of it as working though. He is cataloging. Archiving all of Ian’s works and belongings. A photograph of Ian’s dress shoes. The ones he wore on their wedding day. Not his brown loafers that he always wore when he gave readings. That’s a different photograph. Then there are those photos of clothing he wore often. Dark jeans. A blue button down shirt. It was a new shirt. He spilled coffee on the other one. Pictures of his writing desk and notepad, his cologne and razor begin to pile up.

And he just keeps taking pictures.

Missing his husband click after click after click.

* * *

 

It was February.

It was six in the morning and a deep fog had set in. Visibility was very low. The fog hung so close to the lake that people couldn’t even see the water. It was already rush hour and there had been an accident at the Oak Street curve so Lake Shore Drive was backed up and traffic was at a standstill.

It looks creepy, people would say.

It looks creepy with the gnarled dead trees and the thick fog and the invisible water, others would add.

Joggers and bike riders were told not to exercise by the lake that day. The news said it was too dangerous. A spokesperson for the police rattled off the number of people who die by falling into the lake during the winter. The temperature was only going to be 18 degrees that day with a wind chill of 6. Around eight o’ clock that morning after the fog had cleared, a 20 year-old female student from Columbia College placed a call to 911.

It was a cold Chicago morning in February four months after Ian’s death when they found Mickey Milkovich floating in Lake Michigan.

* * *

 

She woke up that morning to find a letter had been slipped under her door.

She took it with her as she rushed out of her apartment.

* * *

 

Svetlana looks at her hands.

She used to have such lovely hands. She looks up and sighs when she finds traumatized children crying in front of her. She looks away. She can only imagine how much more awful it will be if they do ever make that movie and millions of people see it.

What did the letter say, they ask.

She tells them the gory details. What he did. And what he wanted her to do now that he was dead. She tells them about the key he included, his front door key taped to the letter. How she rushed into the cold without a coat so that she could jump into her car and race to his apartment. How she packed the six chests he left lined in a row in Ian’s study into her trunk and backseat. How she kept those chests a secret until three years ago when a graduate student came to her home and said their names.

Lip Gallagher, the last remaining sibling of the Gallagher brood, was furious. All of his brother’s writings, every last poem to every last note, were in there. Photographs of Ian and Mickey with family and friends and by themselves made up just one chest. And it had all been gifted to The Art Institute. And they, in turn, were in contact with The Met.

He will become homicidal when he finds out that she has also gifted the additional two chests of their letters and more personal writings. She wanted to keep them until the very end. She wanted to keep running her fingers along the edges, wanted to keep saying their words to herself. The love letters continue to make her blush. The notes they wrote while apart continue to make her ache.

And the letter.

The one that has remained unopened all of these years continues to cause her guilt. Mickey never saw it. He never even knew it existed. And she never had the strength to read what Ian had written. It wasn’t meant for her eyes to see.

Once the interview is completed and she is ready to leave, they tell her that post-production should be completed within the next four months. She nods her head but doesn’t respond. The doctor only gave her six months. That was three months ago.

She arrives home to a prepared meal covered in Saran wrap with a note from her aide Theresa stating that she’ll be back at 9:30 tomorrow morning. Svetlana puts the meal in the fridge and walks towards her library. She settles into her armchair before reaching for the slip of paper she was reading before she left for the interview.

_I love you, I love you, I love you. I love you._

There’s a tear-stain on it that smudges the last “love”. A remnant of Mickey’s grief. She runs a finger lightly over the words, feeling the deep grooves of his penmanship. She sits there for what seems like hours with her eyes closed. She feels at peace now because she has done what she set out to do. What Mickey had asked of her all those years ago.

The Earth will turn, and the sun will set, and lives will go on. But they will not be forgotten.

She has made sure of that.


End file.
